No Mark Upon Her (21 page)

“Without her knowledge?”

“It’s not illegal, Sergeant,” said Milo with a hint of sharpness. He seemed to have recovered his composure quickly enough. “It was just a small conspiracy with one of the rowers. This was after one of the boys let slip she’d bribed a few of them to help her move weights and an erg into the cottage. I was . . . curious. It is my job, after all, to see what my crew is up against.”

“And?”

“She was better.” He met Doug’s eyes again.

“Would she have rowed for you?”

“Maybe. But Becca was never exactly a team player. And the other women wouldn’t have been happy with her coming in and riding roughshod over their positions.”

“Tricky, then,” Doug said.

“Not really. If Becca had wanted to race on her own, and had the means to do it, she wouldn’t have worried about hurting anyone’s feelings, including mine.”

“Disappointing for you, after all the work you’ve put in with your own crew,” suggested Doug, in his best attempt at Kincaid-style casualness.

“What?” Milo gave a bark of laughter. “You think I might have killed Becca to advance the chances of my own team?” When Doug merely looked blandly noncommittal, Milo’s amusement turned to irritation. “That’s ludicrous. I have a couple of good possibilities for the single scull. Not topflight, but we’ll see. And if not, there will be others.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me where you were on Monday evening,” said Doug.

“Here, of course. I was just doing my evening lockup when I saw Becca taking out the Filippi. After we spoke, I came back to the gym to oversee the evening workout. Then I ate supper with the crew.”

Doug didn’t see any conceivable way Milo could have spoken to Becca as she left Leander, then made his way to a hiding spot on the far side of the river by the time Becca had rowed round Temple Island and started back upstream. Of course, that was assuming Milo was telling the truth about speaking to Becca, as well as about the time he saw her leave Leander.

But Doug doubted that Milo would lie about his movements when his schedule was so easily verifiable. And if Kieran Connolly’s story bore out, the man on the other side of the river had been lying in wait for two evenings just when Milo would have had coaching duties.

He gave the idea up as a bad prospect for the moment and moved on to Kieran. “Last night, Mr. Jachym, do you know if any singles were taken out, or might have been missing, around eight o’clock?”

“A single? Why?”

“Kieran Connolly’s boatshed is on the island across from the Rowing Museum. So unless his attacker just happened to live there, too, I suspect he used a boat. And why not a racing shell?”

“True enough,” Milo agreed. “Well, if it was a boat, it didn’t come from Leander. There are only a few singles racked in the yard, and we’ve all been keeping a close eye on things here.” The look he gave Doug was pitying. “But, Sergeant, if you’re trying to account for every single scull along this stretch of the Thames, I wish you the best of luck.”

K
incaid stood in New Street, waiting for Cullen in front of the Malthouse, a complex of upscale renovated flats in part of the old Brakspear Brewery. On the other side of the street, the Hotel du Vin occupied another of the brewery’s buildings, and Kincaid thought he could summon more enthusiasm for a nice lunch in the hotel bar than for the upcoming interview.

The cards were certainly stacking against Freddie Atterton. Kincaid had given a brief and noncommittal report to the press gathered at Henley Police Station. Then he’d rung Chief Superintendent Childs, who had jumped on the news of Becca Meredith’s life insurance policy with all the glee of a terrier after a rat. For Childs the demonstration of such enthusiasm consisted of a slight raising of his voice, accompanied, Kincaid imagined, by a slight but corresponding rise of the brows.

He was just as glad not to be there to see it.

Ending the conversation on a sour note, he reluctantly assured his guv’nor that he would pull out all the stops to establish whether or not Freddie Atterton had an alibi for the time in question.

Then, just as he rang off, DC Imogen Bell came in to tell him that the SOCOs had found a partial footprint at the spot that Kieran had indicated on the riverbank, as well as fibers caught on a twig and evidence of disturbance at the water’s edge. They were still engaged in a fingertip search of the area.

So it looked as though Kieran Connolly had been right about the spot where Becca had been killed, and Childs would be jubilant if either footprint or fiber could be tied to Atterton.

But while Kincaid knew his remit was to catch Becca Meredith’s killer, he felt he was being pushed in Atterton’s direction, and by an agenda that had nothing to do with the serving of justice.

He didn’t like it.

Maybe he was just being stubborn, he thought, like the children when they wanted their own way and refused to see reason.

Or maybe he was sympathizing too much with a man who was grieving for a woman he’d loved, no matter how complicated the relationship. He’d accused Gemma often enough of being too ready to put herself in a suspect’s shoes—now perhaps he was guilty of the same sin.

Fidgeting, he watched the passersby, all of whom seemed to be enjoying the sunshine and the prospect of lunch. The redbrick frontage of the hotel contrasted cheerfully with its white trim, and on the wall of a cottage across the street, late pink roses were blooming with a profusion that seemed to shout
last chance
. It felt like a day for last chances.

He was just about to pull out his phone and ring Cullen again when he saw him rounding the corner at the bottom of the street.

Cullen looked jaunty, as if a little of Leander’s glamour had rubbed off on him.

“Any luck?” Kincaid asked when Cullen reached him.

“I didn’t find a conveniently missing single scull, no,” said Doug. “Milo Jachym says they’ve been particularly careful to check the boats at night.”

“Well, that would have been a bit much to hope for. I’ve got DC Bell going round the other two clubs, just in case. Anything else?”

“I don’t think Milo Jachym is a likely suspect. I do think he would protect Freddie Atterton unless he knew without a doubt that Atterton was guilty. But a funny thing,” Doug added. He pulled off his wire-framed glasses and rubbed the lenses with his tie. “He seemed quite happy to admit that it was Atterton who broke up the marriage, by cheating. Serial affairs, apparently. Becca was Milo Jachym’s rower, and his friend. You’d think he’d have been a bit more incensed on her behalf.”

“Divided loyalties? Or just macho sympathies?” Kincaid speculated. “ ‘Boys will be boys.’ ”

“It certainly seems as though Atterton felt guilty enough about his behavior,” said Doug as he slipped his glasses on again. “We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”

The Malthouse flats were protected from the street by an impressive iron gate, but placed discreetly to one side of it was a panel with separate bell pushes for each residence. Kincaid checked the slip of paper he’d tucked into his jacket pocket, then rang the number for Atterton’s flat.

K
incaid’s first thought was that Freddie Atterton looked like hell.

His second was that Freddie Atterton’s flat was enough to make anyone feel like hell. It was black on gray on spare, and not even the good lighting and the architectural details preserved by the renovation made much dent in livening the place up.

And that was if you ignored the mess. Rumpled clothes were scattered across the sitting room. An empty bottle of scotch sat on the coffee table. Beside it, what looked like a cereal bowl held cigarette ends, and an unpleasant whiff of spoiled food drifted from the open-plan kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” said Atterton, and he seemed to be apologizing for more than the state of the flat. He wore only a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and his hair was uncombed and flattened on one side as if he’d just got out of bed. “I’m—things have got away from me a bit. Let me just find a shirt—” He looked round as if one might materialize out of thin air, then spotted a dress shirt hanging on the back of a dining chair. Slipping it on, he buttoned two buttons, both misaligned, then asked, “Can I make you some coffee?”

Picking up the bowl-ashtray, he looked round, apparently searching for somewhere else to put it. He settled on the mantel, above which hung two dark blue Oxford oars, the only spot of color in the room. “Sorry,” he said again, coming back to the sofa. “I’d given up the fags, but after—it seemed the only thing—”

“Mr. Atterton,” Kincaid interrupted. “We need to talk. Can we sit down?”

Freddie Atterton’s already pale face went ashen. He groped for the edge of the sofa, then sank down, unmindful, or unaware, of the suit jacket that had been left on the cushion. “Oh, God, what’s happened?”

Kincaid nodded to Cullen and they both sat, Doug in the armchair, while Kincaid dragged over one of the massively carved gray dining chairs so he could sit close to Freddie. Who the hell had picked out such hideous furniture? he wondered. The damned stuff might have escaped from the French Reign of Terror.

“Mr. Atterton. Freddie. About your ex-wife. We now have reason to believe she was murdered.”

“Murdered.” The dark hollows beneath Atterton’s eyes looked soot-smudged. “So it’s true—” He stopped, swallowed. “I thought, when they called in the Yard, that it was just because Becca was one of you. Not something like that. Never something like that. Why would someone kill Becca?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out. And we were called in initially because the circumstances of Becca’s disappearance were unexplained,” Kincaid agreed. “But there have been some . . . developments.”

“You know what happened to her, don’t you?” Freddie’s voice was a thread. “You know how she died. Why didn’t someone—” He shook his head, seemed to make an effort to collect himself. “Okay. I’m sorry. I know you probably can’t say.” He took a breath. “What can I do to help you?”

“I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Atterton. You can start by telling us where you were on Monday evening.”

“Monday?”

Kincaid had the distinct sense that some of Freddie’s surprise at the question was feigned. “The evening your wife died. You can’t have forgotten.”

“No. No, of course not. It’s just—with everything that’s happened, I don’t—let me think . . .” He patted the front pocket of his shirt, seemed to realize it was empty, then dropped his hand back to his lap. The Benson & Hedges packet on the coffee table was crumpled and empty.

“Let’s say between four and six,” Kincaid added helpfully.

Freddie blinked once, twice, lifted his hand towards his pocket again. “I—I was here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Any verification? Neighbor that might have seen you, something like that?”

“No. No, I can’t remember seeing anyone. I’d been to the club for lunch. That’s when Milo told me about Becca—I mean told me that she was training seriously. I knew she was rowing again, of course, but she’d said she was just trying to get back into shape, relieve some stress from work.”

“But you knew she’d bought a boat, the Filippi,” Kincaid said.

“Yes, well, you wouldn’t have expected Becca to row in a club boat.”

“That’s an expensive boat,” put in Doug. “Top class.”

“She could afford it.”

Had there been just the slightest trace of bitterness in Freddie’s reply? wondered Kincaid. Well, he’d get back to that. “What exactly did Milo tell you that day?”

“That she’d had some lads in the crew help her turn my—her—spare room in the cottage into a training room. She’d moved in weights and an erg. And Milo had clocked her. She was blazing.”

“Timed her without her knowledge,” Doug interjected.

“Well, yeah.” Freddie looked sheepish. “But she could be bloody secretive, and I can’t blame Milo for wanting to know.”

“Because she was better than his own crew?” Kincaid asked.

“No. Because if she’d been willing to row for him, he might have had a champion. And there’s nothing the media love more than a comeback story. It would have been good press for the whole team.”

Kincaid thought about this. “When we first interviewed Milo, he said you were ‘furious’ when you found out about Becca’s training. And on the message you left on her home phone, you sounded angry with her. Why, if you thought she had a chance to be that good?”

“I—” Freddie rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks with his palms. “I suppose I was worried about what would happen if she failed. The last time—she was never really the same afterwards. She never forgave herself.”

“But she broke her arm, didn’t she?” Kincaid asked. “Surely that wasn’t her fault.”

“Oh, but it was,” said Freddie. “And mine, too, because I let her talk me into it. It was the Christmas before the Olympics, and the team was in strict training. Milo didn’t want anyone taking the chance of an injury, but Becca wanted a skiing holiday in Switzerland. She thought she was invincible. But she wasn’t. She fell on the slopes and broke her wrist, badly.

“Milo was the one who was furious. And afterwards, even though Becca worked really hard at rehab, hoping to get her position back, he didn’t believe the break had healed enough to take the strain of serious training.” Freddie sighed. “They were both stubborn, and they both felt justified in their grudges. Maybe they were, I don’t know. But it took them a long time to become friends again.”

“I can see why she might have been a bit reluctant to let him know she was training,” said Doug. “She had something to prove, and she wanted to be sure of herself.”

“Exactly.” Freddie gave Doug a grateful look.

“So you were worried about her?” Kincaid asked. “That’s all?”

Freddie must have heard the skepticism in his voice, because he colored. “What other reason would I have had?”

“Maybe you were worried she would lose her job.” Kincaid stood and began to wander round the room, so that Freddie had to turn his head to follow him. “Or quit,” he went on. “Maybe you were worried she would come to you for a handout, and you thought you’d been generous enough already—although rumor has it she deserved a generous settlement.”