No Mark Upon Her (13 page)

“I take it you belonged to the second group.”

Cullen ignored this quip. “If you know the course well, which Becca Meredith would have done, you learn to navigate by landmarks.”

“What about the cottage?” Kincaid asked Singla. “Anything there?”

“Nothing that seems out of the ordinary. The calls on her home phone seem to correlate with the ex-husband’s account. He left a message at approximately the time Milo Jachym saw her take the boat out, as well as several messages later in the evening and the following morning.”

“He could have rung from anywhere,” Kincaid said thoughtfully. “He could have been checking to see if she’d taken the boat out. What about her mobile? Was it in the house?”

“In her handbag.” Singla nodded towards a polyethylene bag among the papers on the table. “I had the duty constable bring her personal effects. But we don’t know her voice mail password.”

“Maybe Mr. Atterton will be able to enlighten us. But meanwhile . . .” Kincaid pulled a chair out from the table, sat, opened the bag, and took out the phone. It was a sophisticated model, one he’d expect a senior officer to carry. But when he touched the screen, the wallpaper that appeared was a service provider’s stock picture.

Intrigued, he checked the phone’s photo files and found nothing. “Odd. She had no pictures stored on her phone.” He tried another application. “Nor did she use her calendar.”

Quickly, he scrolled through her e-mails and text messages, but they all seemed to be work-related, except for a text message from Freddie Atterton sent at approximately the time she’d gone out in the boat, saying,
Ring me!!!! I talked to Milo
. The phone also showed two voice mails, but he couldn’t retrieve them. There was no visual voice mail.

He checked her contact list—short, which by now didn’t surprise him. Going through it would be a job for Doug, but at the moment he was pleased to see that she’d listed her own mobile number. He took out his phone and called it.

The ringtone, like the wallpaper, was standard, a double tone.

He was beginning to form a very curious picture of Rebecca Meredith. “She didn’t by any chance have another phone?” he asked Singla.

“Not that we found, no.”

Kincaid rifled through the rest of the contents in the bag. “A pen,” he said, cataloging the contents aloud. “Black, fairly expensive, rollerball. No artistic, leaky fountain pens here. A wallet, black leather. And in that we have a driving license, forty pounds in notes and some change, a debit card, a credit card, a Selfridge’s store card.” Going back to the license, he studied the picture. Although her face was long, Rebecca Meredith’s features were good, and in other circumstances she might have been pretty. But in this photo she stared sternly into the camera, as if someone had dared her to smile and she was determined to win the bet.

Closing the wallet, he went on to the next thing. “Oyster card, standard issue folder. A packet of tissues.” He unzipped a small makeup kit and dumped out the contents. “Compact. Lipstick. Lip balm. Tin of aspirin. A pack of tampons.” Moving those items to one side, he shook out the polyethylene bag, then glanced at Doug. “And that’s it. No crumpled gum or sweet wrappers. No scribbled phone numbers. No pizza-chain loyalty cards. No cologne samples carried for a quick touch-up before a date.”

“Nothing not practical or essential,” agreed Doug. “And absolutely nothing personal.”

“Sir,” said Singla, “I really don’t see the importance of what this woman did or didn’t carry in her handbag. Surely—”

“Think about it for a moment,” Kincaid interrupted. “Are you married, DI Singla?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Do you know what your wife keeps in her handbag?” Kincaid thought of Gemma, who now carried a tote bag the size of a small suitcase, filled with Charlotte’s favorite books and biscuits and invariably, Bob, the green stuffed elephant that Charlotte refused to leave home without. He wondered how
he
was going to lug all that kit around and still look remotely manly.

Singla shook his head, looking horrified. “The kitchen sink, if she could fit it in.” He closed his eyes, thinking. “The kids’ school reports, old shopping lists, grocery receipts, sample packets of biscuits. Even tea bags, just in case a café doesn’t have the kind she likes. An umbrella, because you never know when it might rain. And always a book—she’s a great reader, my wife. She likes the sort with the book club questions in the back.”

Nodding, Kincaid asked, “What sort of biscuits?”

“Hob Nobs.”

“What color is her umbrella?”

Singla considered. He’d lost his impatient expression. “Pink with yellow polka dots. She says if it rains you should carry something cheerful to compensate.”

“What type of tea?”

“Chai. And she always asks for hot milk in a café. It’s embarrassing to me, but no one else seems to mind.”

“You see?” Kincaid smiled. “I now know a good bit about your wife.” He didn’t add that he liked Singla the better for it. “I’d wager she’s intelligent, perhaps slightly plump, and of a cheerful and optimistic disposition. A woman who knows what she likes and usually gets it.”

Singla rolled his eyes. “You can say that again. And that is a fair description. But what does my wife, or my wife’s handbag, have to do with Rebecca Meredith?”

The young female constable, who’d been listening intently, spoke up. “It’s not your wife’s handbag that’s important, sir. It’s Rebecca Meredith’s. And I’d say it tells us that she was a woman with something to hide.”

Chapter Nine

Sculling is for individualists
.

—Brad Alan Lewis

Assault on Lake Casitas

T
he detective constable was tall, with a lanky, coltish grace. She had shoulder-length shiny brown hair and brown eyes, and it occurred to Kincaid that Rebecca Meredith might have had a similar look ten years ago.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Imogen, sir. DC Imogen Bell.”

“Are you by any chance a rower?”

“No, sir. But I’ve gone out with a few. Conceited gits, for the most part. Think just because they can move a boat, they’re God’s gift to—” She caught Singla’s eye and stopped. “Um, sorry, sir.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m always interested in the inside scoop,” Kincaid said, and saw a flash of a smile before she schooled her face into an expression her guv’nor would approve.

“Did you know DCI Meredith, Detective Bell?”

“I knew who she was, sir. But not to speak to. I’d passed her in the street a few times. We— Well, I suppose I looked up to her, as a role model. She seemed as if she’d stand up for herself, you know?” She cast another wary glance at Singla, but he had taken a phone call.

Bell’s colleague, a rather podgy young man in an unfortunately snug suit, gave a slight shake of his head and looked away, as if consigning her to her fate.

Kincaid, however, was not concerned with DI Singla’s notions of propriety. If these officers were his potential team, he wanted to get a feel for their personalities and for the dynamic between them. “Do you know Freddie Atterton, her ex-husband?” he asked.

“Again, not to speak to,” answered Bell. “But he has, um, a certain reputation.”

“And what would that be?”

“A bit of a ladies’ man, sir. And he likes to go out to the clubs and bars—you know, the nicer places, like Hotel du Vin and Loch Fyne—although I don’t think he’s really known as a heavy drinker.”

“You’re very well informed.”

Kincaid’s remark earned a smirk from the podgy constable. “That’s because she knows all the bartenders,” said the young man. “And she forgot to mention the strip club.”

Imogen Bell shot him a look of dislike. “It’s a small town. And bartenders make good sources. They always know what’s going on, and they usually have a pretty good idea if people are up to something they shouldn’t be.”

Kincaid was liking Imogen Bell better and better.

“Henley has a strip club?” asked Cullen, sounding as if that idea was in the flying pigs category.

“It’s on the car park.” Bell shrugged dismissively. “And it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. It’s basically a nightclub with a few girls who do lap dances. It’s where everyone in Henley goes when the pubs close.”

“It’s also next door to the senior center,” said her colleague, “and has caused no end of upset with the town council.”

Kincaid studied him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Bean. Laurence Bean. Sir.”

“Bean and Bell?” He couldn’t help grinning, although he knew it wouldn’t endear him to DC Bean. “Or Bell and Bean? Sounds like a music hall act.”

Bell smiled back. “I’m the song. He’s the dance.”

“Sod off, Bell,” began Bean, but his repartee was interrupted by DI Singla, off the phone and looking thunderous.

“We have an inquiry on, in case you hadn’t noticed. And at the moment it seems to be going nowhere. The house-to-house team checking Leander to Remenham has found nothing. Nor has the team I’ve had querying the narrowboats moored on the Bucks bank between Henley and Greenlands.”

“Not an unexpected result,” Kincaid said. “But—” His phone vibrated. When a quick glance at the screen showed the caller as Rashid Kaleem, he excused himself and took the call. “Rashid? What have you got?”

“Nothing one hundred percent definitive,” said Kaleem, in the precise Oxbridge accent that always seemed at odds with his rather rakish appearance. The accent, Kincaid thought, was a small but understandable vanity for a man who had grown up on a Bangladeshi council estate in Bethnal Green. “But,” Kaleem continued, “I don’t like it. Some of the head injuries appear to have been inflicted antemortem. She was definitely alive when she went into the drink—her lungs were filled with water. And river water, before you ask. No one drowned her in the bathtub.”

“So, no sudden death syndrome while rowing?” Kincaid asked, with a look at Cullen.

“No. And most athletes who die from sudden cardiac failure turn out to have an undiagnosed genetic defect. Rebecca Meredith was as fit as anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Kincaid knew Kaleem well enough to be certain there was more. “Both the drowning and the head injuries could have been the result of an accidental capsize. What’s the catch?”

“Scrapes of pink paint under her fingernails. Her nails were short and very well cared for, so I’d say it’s unlikely she was doing a bit of DIY and forgot to scrub up. And there was a bit of bruising on her knuckles, with what might possibly be some flakes of the same paint embedded in the skin. I take it the boat was not a lurid sort of bright peachy-pink, by the way. I’ve sent samples to the lab to see if they can match it.”

“I think I can guess,” Kincaid said. “You’ve just given a very good description of Leander pink.”

K
incaid clicked off and outlined Kaleem’s conclusions for the rest of the team. Turning to Cullen, he said, “Doug, you’re a rower. She had pink paint under her nails and bruising on her knuckles. Give me a scenario.”

Cullen looked a little pale. “Well, I suppose someone could have tipped her. If her oar had come loose . . . or if someone took it out of the oarlock, it wouldn’t have been that difficult, especially if she was taken by surprise. Then, when she tried to right the boat, they could have held it down with the oar.”

“And when she reached up,” Kincaid continued, “trying to right herself, she scrabbled at the oar. And then they—whoever this person was—bashed her knuckles with it.”

“Why couldn’t she have just kicked her feet out of the shoes and swum out from underneath?” asked Bell.

“If she’d taken a blow to the head, she might have been confused. And she could have breathed in water immediately, from the shock.”

“This hypothetical person who tipped the boat,” broke in Singla. “This is all conjecture, Superintendent.”

“Conjecture is enough to go on with at this point, Inspector.” Kincaid was grim, his levity with Bean and Bell a moment before forgotten. “I think we have a murder inquiry on our hands.”

H
e rang Denis Childs and apprised him of the developments.

There was a moment’s silence on the line, then Kincaid heard a distinct sigh. “I suppose we have no choice,” said Childs, not sounding particularly happy about it. “But I want you as SIO. I’ll go through channels with Thames Valley. And you’ll need more resources. I’ll organize some data-entry staff for you. What about the team there in Henley?”

“They’ll do for the moment. But sir—”

“Have you managed to place the ex-husband at the scene?”

“No, sir,” Kincaid said, more formally than was his wont. “I have not. And I think we should remember that for the last fourteen years, Rebecca Meredith’s life encompassed more than her ex-husband and her rowing. She was a police officer, and to have made DCI, she was clearly a good one. I’m going to pay a call on her station.”

K
incaid concentrated on the merging traffic on the M4 as he drove back into London, but he could feel Cullen’s curious glances. “Out with it,” he said when he had settled the Astra comfortably into the fast lane.

“What’s up with the guv’nor?” asked Cullen. “You seemed a bit, um, shirty.”

“He’s got a bee in his bonnet about Freddie Atterton. I think he’s a little premature, that’s all.”

“Did he quote the statistics?”

“Not yet. But I expect it will occur to him.” They all knew that the majority of murders were committed by someone closely related to the victim, and Kincaid was surprised that Childs hadn’t already pulled that out of his arsenal since he seemed so determined to put Freddie Atterton in the frame.

“You have to admit,” Doug said thoughtfully, “that what we’ve learned this morning ups the likelihood that the perpetrator was a rower—or at least knew something about boats. And they must have known Meredith’s routine. Freddie Atterton fits both parameters.”

“Possibly.” Knowing that Cullen was right on both counts, Kincaid wondered if he was just being stubborn in refusing to put Atterton on the top of his list. Maybe. He didn’t like being pushed. But he also knew how dangerous it was to jump to conclusions so early in a case, and he wasn’t going to let someone else’s agenda drive his investigation.

T
he CID room at West London Station fell quiet as they walked in. The duty sergeant on the front desk had phoned upstairs to announce them, and, as always in police stations, news seemed to travel instantaneously and telepathically. Kincaid had no doubt that every officer on the floor knew who they were and why they were there.

The superintendent’s office was at the rear of the room, divided from the general hubbub by a glass partition. Kincaid tapped on the door and through the half-open blinds saw a man rise from his desk to admit them.

Peter Gaskill shook their hands briskly. “Superintendent. Sergeant. Have a seat.” A tall man, his fine, neatly barbered brown hair had receded just enough to give him a patrician look. He wore an expensively cut navy blazer that Kincaid thought would have made him look right at home at Leander.

“A bad business,” Gaskill said, returning to his leather executive chair. He seemed even taller sitting down, and Kincaid wondered if he pumped the chair up to its full height for the intimidation factor. “To lose an officer under any circumstances, but murder . . .” He shook his head. “This is dreadful. Are you certain?”

“Chief Superintendent Childs rang you, then?” Kincaid asked, not feeling it necessary to restate what he knew Childs had already told the man.

“Yes, right away. He has every confidence in you, Superintendent.”

Kincaid’s hackles rose. First, Peter Gaskill had distanced himself by not using their names, and now he sounded downright patronizing. Who was he to think Kincaid needed a pat on the back?

He ignored the comment and smiled, refusing to give Gaskill the satisfaction of seeing he’d nettled him. “I appreciate that, Superintendent.” Gaskill could bloody well hold his breath waiting for the honorific—they were of the same rank. “And I’d appreciate anything you could tell us about DCI Meredith.”

“DCI Meredith was an exemplary officer. Well respected here in the division.”

“But was she liked?”

“Liked?” For the first time, Gaskill looked nonplussed. “Is that really relevant, Superintendent? Senior police officers are not in the business of being liked.”

It was Kincaid’s turn to be patronizing. “It’s relevant in any murder inquiry, as I’m sure you’re aware. I want to know how Rebecca Meredith got on with her colleagues. Were there any interdepartmental feuds or rivalries?”

Gaskill was staring at him now. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that Meredith’s death had anything to do with her work here in the division.”

“I don’t know.” Kincaid shrugged. “I don’t know anything at this point except that it appears that someone turned over Rebecca Meredith’s rowing shell and held her under until she drowned.”

The only sound in the office was the sharp intake of Gaskill’s breath. With his back to the glass partition, Kincaid could only sense the attention of the occupants of the CID room, but he felt as if someone were boring a hole between his shoulder blades.

Cullen pushed his glasses up on his nose, and Gaskill looked away from Kincaid’s gaze, breaking the tension of the moment. “That’s terrible, Superintendent,” he said. “Truly terrible. If you’re right, this person must be brought to justice.”

There it was again, Kincaid thought. The properly expressed sentiments, but beneath that, the undertone of contempt.
If you’re right,
Gaskill had said.

“Was she working on anything that might have caused someone to harm her?” Cullen asked. Grudge killings of police officers were not unheard of, and it was a possibility they must consider.

“A string of teenage knifings on an estate,” Gaskill answered, dismissive. “These kids wouldn’t know where Henley was, much less how to get there, or how to turn over a rowing boat.”

Cullen wasn’t so easily fobbed off. “What about her rowing? I understand she’d begun leaving work very early since the clocks went back. Was this causing any difficulties with her performance?”

“Becca assured me that she would continue to manage her caseload.”

Seeing Cullen’s quick glance, Kincaid knew his partner had caught it, too. Gaskill had slipped and called Becca by her familiar name.

“And her colleagues here in the unit?” Kincaid asked. “Were they okay with this, too?”

“You’d have to ask them, Superintendent. I assumed she had come to an understanding with them.”

“Had she, now?” Kincaid settled a little more comfortably in his chair and straightened his trouser crease before he continued. “Did you know that DCI Meredith was considering training full-time for the Olympics?”

He saw the flash of hesitation on Gaskill’s face. It was brief, and quickly mastered, but it had been there. The man had been deciding whether or not to lie. Why?

Gaskill touched the already perfectly aligned stack of papers on his desk. “She’d talked to me about it, yes, but I didn’t think she’d come to a definite decision. She would have had the full support of the force, of course, although we’d have hated to lose her.” Seeming to realize he’d made an unfortunate choice of words, Gaskill added, “I mean temporarily, of course.”

He cleared his throat, a deliberate end-of-the-interview signal. “Now, if you don’t mind, Superintendent, I’ve a luncheon appointment. As for DCI Meredith’s team, Sergeant Patterson is out on an interview, but DC Bisik is waiting to speak to you.”

Kincaid decided to accept the dismissal gracefully. He wanted to know more before he pushed Superintendent Gaskill further. He stood and reached for Gaskill’s hand, giving him no choice but to shake again. “Thanks for your time.”