No Mark Upon Her (2 page)

Chapter
Two

In the single shell I
found my instrument . . .

—Sara Hall

Drawn to the
Rhythm

F
reddie
Atterton swiped his member’s tag over the scanner at the entrance to the Leander
car park, then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for the
gate bar to rise. The Audi’s wipers swished, all but useless at moving the
sheets of water streaming across the windscreen. Peering forward as the bar
lifted, he eased out the clutch and felt the gravel shift under the car’s tires
as he inched forward.

“Sodding rain,” he muttered as he pulled into the
nearest available space. The car park was fast turning into a bog. He’d be lucky
if he could get the car out again. Nor was there any way he was getting from the
car to the clubhouse without ruining his hand-stitched Italian leather shoes, or
keeping his jacket from getting soaked before he could get his umbrella up.

Killing the engine, he glanced at his watch—five
minutes to eight. There wasn’t time to wait it out. He didn’t want to dash
dripping into the club and find his prospective investor there before him. This
breakfast meeting was too important to start it off looking like a drowned—and
harried—rat.

And he’d meant to be better informed. Damn Becca
for not ringing him back last night. He’d tried her again this morning, but she
still hadn’t picked up on either phone.

With more than a decade as an officer in the
Metropolitan Police, Becca knew almost everyone who was anyone in the force.
Freddie had thought she might be able to give him some tips on his prospect, who
was a recently retired Met officer. Not that one expected run-of-the-mill
Metropolitan Police officers to be flush enough to sink money into what Freddie
admitted was a still slightly sketchy property deal.

But this bloke, Angus Craig, had been a deputy
assistant commissioner, and he lived in a nearby village that was definitely on
the poncey end of the spectrum. Freddie had run into him over drinks at a local
club the previous week, and when they’d got chatting, Craig had said he liked
the idea of putting his money into something he could keep an eye on. Freddie
had hoped that Becca could tell him whether or not Craig was a serious
player.

And God help Freddie if not. He’d bought the
run-down farm and outbuildings on the Thames below Remenham, intending to turn
the place into upmarket flats—
tasteful country living with
city luxury and a river view
. But then the market had dived, and now
he was overextended and couldn’t get the damned thing off the ground.

He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and
checked it once more, just in case he’d missed a call, but there was no message
light. His irritation inched over into vague worry. Stubborn Becca might be, but
they’d managed to keep up an odd sort of friendship after the divorce, and if
nothing else, he’d expected her to ring him to tell him to mind his own
business.

Maybe he had been out of line, telling her off
about the rowing. But he couldn’t believe she really meant to put her career as
a detective chief inspector in jeopardy for a pipe dream of an Olympic gold
medal that any sane person would have given up years ago. He’d felt the siren
call of rowing, too, and God knew he’d been competitive, but at some point you
realized you had to let it go and get on with real life. As he had.

With a sudden and uncomfortable twinge, he wondered
if he’d have let it go so easily if he’d been as good as she was. And just how
successful had he been at real life? He pushed that nagging little thought
aside. Things would get better; they always did.

Perhaps he should rethink what he’d said to Becca.
But first, Mr. Craig.

A
ngus
Craig, however, failed to materialize.

Freddie had leapt from the Audi, popping open his
umbrella with the speed of a conjurer, then squelched across the car park to the
haven of Leander’s lobby. Lily, the duty manager, had brought him a towel from
the crew quarters, then seated him at his favorite table in the window of the
first-floor dining room.

“The crew won’t be going out this morning,” he
said, looking out at the curtains of rain sweeping across the river. This was
rough weather, even for Leander’s crew, who prided themselves on their
fortitude—although anyone who had rowed in an Oxford or Cambridge Blue Boat
could tell them a thing or two about weather . . . and fortitude.

Freddie’s boat had almost been swamped one year in
the Boat Race, in conditions like this. An unpleasant experience, to say the
least, and a dangerous one.

“You’ve got someone joining you?” asked Lily as she
poured him coffee.

“Yes.” Freddie glanced at his watch again. “But
he’s late.”

“Some of the staff haven’t made it in,” said Lily.
“Chef says there’s a pileup on the Marlow Road.”

“That probably explains it.” Freddie summoned a
smile for her. She was a pretty girl, neat in her Leander uniform of navy skirt
and pale pink shirt, her honey-brown hair pulled back in a knot. A few years
earlier he’d have fancied her, but he’d learned from his mistakes since then.
Now he was wiser and wearier. “Thanks, Lily. I’ll give him a bit longer before I
order.”

She left him, and he sipped his coffee, idly
watching the few other diners. This early in the week and this time of year, he
doubted there were many overnight guests in the club’s dozen rooms, and the
weather had probably discouraged most of the local members who normally came to
the club for breakfast. The food was exceptionally good and surprisingly
reasonably priced.

The chef would have his hands full, regardless of
the slow custom in the dining room. He was also responsible for feeding the
voracious appetites of the young crew, who ate in their own quarters. Rowers
were always starving, hunger as ingrained as breathing.

At half past eight, well into his second cup of
coffee and beginning to feel desperate for a smoke, Freddie rang Angus Craig’s
number and got voice mail.

At a quarter to nine, he ordered his usual
breakfast of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, but found he’d lost his
appetite. Pushing the eggs aside and buttering toast instead, he realized the
rain had eased. He could see across the river now, although the watery gray
vista of shops and rooftops on the opposite bank might as well have been Venice.
But perhaps the traffic was moving again. He’d give Craig another few
minutes.

The sound of voices in reception made him look
round. It wasn’t the big, sandy-haired Craig, however, but Milo Jachym, the
women’s coach, having a word with Lily. He was dressed in rain gear, and had a
purposeful set to his small, sturdy frame.

“Milo,” Freddie called, standing and crossing the
dining room. “Are you going out?”

“Thinking about it. We might have an hour before
the next squall line moves through.” Zipping his anorak, Milo looked out of the
reception doors. Following his gaze, Freddie saw that a few patches of blue were
breaking through the gray sky to the west. Milo added, “I’d like to get them off
the ergs and onto the water, even if it’s a short workout. Otherwise they’ll be
moaning the rest of the day.”

“Can’t blame them. Bloody ergs.” All rowers hated
the ergometers, the machines that were used to simulate rowing and to measure a
rower’s strength. Workouts on the ergs were physically grueling without any of
the pleasure that came from moving a boat through the water. The only good thing
that could be said for an erg workout was that it was mindless—you could drift
into a pain-filled mental free fall without ramming your boat into something and
risking life and limb.

Milo grinned. “Never heard that one before.” He
turned back towards the crew quarters. “I’d better get them out while it
lasts.”

Freddie stopped him with a touch on the arm. “Milo,
did you have a chance to speak to Becca? I was hoping you might have been able
to talk some sense into her.”

“Well, I talked to her, but not sense.” Frowning,
he studied Freddie. “I think you’re fighting a losing battle there. You might as
well give in gracefully. And why are you so sure she can’t win?”

“You think she can?” Freddie asked, surprised.

“There’s no woman in this crew”—he nodded towards
the crew quarters—“or any other I’ve seen in the last year that could out-row
Rebecca at her best.”

“But she’s—”

“Thirty-five? So?”

“Yeah, I know, I know. And she’d kill me if she
heard me say that.” He imitated Becca at her most pedantic.
“Redgrave was thirty-eight, Pinsent, thirty-four, Williams, thirty-two
. . . And Katherine Grainger won silver at thirty-three
. . .”
Freddie shrugged. “But they had medals behind them.
She doesn’t.”

“She has the same capacity for crucifying herself.
Which is what it takes. As you very well know.”

“Okay,” Freddie admitted. “Maybe you’re right. In
which case, maybe I’d better apologize. But she won’t return my calls. When did
you talk to her?”

“Yesterday. About half past four. She was taking a
boat out. She said she’d rack it herself when she came in.” Milo frowned. “But
come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing it when I went out to check the
river conditions this morning. Maybe she took it out at the cottage.”

“Not likely. She’d have to have used the neighbor’s
raft.” It was possible, though, Freddie thought. But, still, she’d have had to
carry the shell through her neighbor’s garden to put it in her own, and she had
no ready place to store the boat. And why do that when she kept the Filippi
racked here?

Unless she felt ill and couldn’t make it all the
way back to Leander? Though that didn’t sound like Becca. The uneasiness that
had been nagging him ratcheted up a notch. He checked his watch, decided Angus
Craig could bugger himself. “I’m going to check the racks.”

“I’ll come with you.” Milo paused, eyeing Freddie’s
navy jacket and blue-and-pink-striped Leander tie. “You’ll get soaked, man.
There’s a spare anorak by the bar.”

But Freddie was already heading out the doors. The
first-floor reception area opened onto an outside balcony with a staircase
leading down from either side. Freddie took the left-hand flight, towards the
river and the boatyard. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but by the time he
reached the boat racks, he was impatiently pushing damp hair off his
forehead.

The rack where Becca kept her Filippi was empty.
“It’s not here,” he said, although Milo could see that as well as he could.

“Maybe she put it in the shed for some reason. She
has a key.” Milo pulled up his hood against the drizzle and turned towards the
clubhouse. The boatshed was beneath the first-floor dining room, and on a fair
day, with the crews going out, the big doors would stand wide open.

This morning, however, they entered through the
smaller door on the right, and Milo flicked on the lights. The space was
cavernous, dim in the corners. It smelled of wood and varnish, and faintly, of
sweat and mildew. The thump of weights could be heard from the gym next
door.

Ordinarily, Freddie found the shed inexplicably
comforting, but now his stomach clenched as all he saw were the racks of
gleaming, bright-yellow Empachers. These were the fours and eights rowed by the
crew. Pink-bladed oars stood up in the racks at the rear of the long room like
flags. There was no sign of the white Filippi with its distinctive blue
stripe.

“Okay,” Milo said. “It’s not here. We’ll ask if
anyone else has seen her.” He opened the door that led into the gym and called
out, “Johnson!”

The promising young bowman of the coxless four
appeared in the doorway in vest and shorts, toweling the sweat from his face.
“We going out, Milo?” He nodded a greeting to Freddie.

“Not just yet,” answered Milo. “Steve, have you
seen Becca Meredith?”

Johnson looked surprised. “Becca? No. Not since
Sunday, on the river. She had a good row. Why?”

“She went out last night, and her boat’s not
back.”

“Have you tried ringing her?” Johnson asked with a
casualness that Freddie found suddenly infuriating.

“Of course I’ve bloody tried ringing her.” He
turned to Milo. “Look, I’m going to check the cottage.”

“Freddie, I think you’re overreacting,” said Milo.
“You know Becca has a mind of her own.”

“No one knows that better than me. But I don’t like
this, Milo. Call me if you hear anything.”

He went out the way he’d come in, rather than going
through the crew quarters in the club. He walked round the lawn to the car park,
unmindful now of his shoes or his damp jacket.

Maybe he
was
overreacting, he thought as he climbed back into the Audi. But he rang her
mobile once more, and when the call went to voice mail, he clicked off and
started the engine. She might chew him up one side and down the other for
intruding, but he was going to see for himself.

Although it took a bit of maneuvering to get the
Audi out of the deep, slushy ruts in the gravel, he eventually managed.

A remembered dialogue played in his head. From
Becca,
Why can’t you get a sensible car for
once?

Because you can’t sell
expensive property if your prospect thinks you can’t afford the best,
he always answered, but there were days he’d kill for four-wheel drive,
and this was one of them.

Once out of the car park, he pulled onto the main
road and turned immediately left into Remenham Lane. As he drove north, he could
see the clouds building again in the western sky.

The redbrick cottage, surrounded by an overgrown
garden, was set between the lane and the river. It had been Freddie’s job to
keep the grounds, which he had done with regularity if not much talent. Becca
had simply let things go until the place had begun to resemble Sleeping Beauty’s
briar thicket.