No Mark Upon Her (22 page)

“What—who told you that?”

“Milo Jachym, for one. And Becca’s lawyer. And Becca’s insurance broker.” Kincaid knew he was stretching it a bit, but he was going for impact.

Freddie had lost the quick flush of a moment before. “That’s not true. I mean, yes, she deserved the settlement. Of course she did. But I never wanted anything back.”

“Rumor also has it that you’re in deep financial shit,” said Doug, taking Kincaid’s place on the dining chair and leaning in close to Freddie. “It would only be natural to regret turning over so much to Becca. Even with the recession, the cottage in Remenham must be worth a pretty penny.”

“But Becca appreciated what you’d done for her, didn’t she?” Kincaid ambled round to stand beside Doug, so that they boxed Freddie in. “That was only fair. And she was fair, wasn’t she? Prickly, competitive, not always easy to get on with. But fair.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Freddie pushed against the back of the sofa, as if he’d like to disappear through it.

“She made sure you would be taken care of if anything happened to her,” said Doug. He gave Kincaid a quick questioning glance and Kincaid nodded affirmation.

“She not only made you the beneficiary and the executor of her estate,” Doug went on, “but she named you as the recipient of a half-a-million-pound life insurance policy.”

In the silence that followed, Kincaid heard the sharp rasp of Freddie’s breath, then the faint sound of voices from the slightly open window that faced New Street. He watched Atterton’s face for the tick that would betray foreknowledge, for the quick involuntary shift of the eyes that signaled deceit.

But Freddie Atterton’s face twisted and he put a shaking hand to his mouth. “Oh, no,” he whispered. “No, please tell me she didn’t.”

“I’m afraid she did.” Kincaid felt a stirring of pity.

“But I can’t—I don’t—” Freddie shook his head wildly, like a man drowning. “I can’t tell her to take it back.”

And in that moment, Kincaid believed him. If Becca Meredith had ever wanted revenge on her erring ex-husband, she had it now. She had given him a gift that might be beyond bearing.

“Well, it should certainly solve your financial difficulties,” said Doug matter-of-factly, apparently unmoved. “Unless, of course, you’re convicted of murder.”

“No. No. I would have been okay,” protested Freddie. He twisted the tail of his shirt in his hands. “I’ve got this project, an upscale development below Remenham. And I had a new investor. That’s what I was doing at Leander on Tuesday morning. I was supposed to have breakfast with him, but he didn’t show. That’s one reason I kept ringing Becca. I wanted to ask her if he was for real.”

“Why would she have known that?” Kincaid asked, wondering if he’d missed a beat.

“Because he’s a cop. Or an ex-cop, I should say. His name is Angus Craig.”

Chapter Fifteen

Beneath these pages lies a world in black and white. It’s one rarely seen by the public, yet one that for two centuries has been a preparatory ground for industrialists and politicians, the makers and sometimes shakers of our fragile society. It’s here that Evelyn Waugh’s pretty
Brideshead Revisited
meets the frazzled
Fight Club
world of Chuck Palahniuk. A flamboyant world with heroes and villains all of its own and dominated by a single event: the Boat Race.

—Mark de Rond

The Last Amateurs: To Hell and Back with the Cambridge Boat Race Crew

“A
ngus Craig?” Kincaid stared at Freddie. “You’re having us on, mate, and it’s not funny.”

“What? What did I say?” Frowning, Freddie looked from Kincaid to Doug.

“You were meeting Angus Craig, retired Met deputy assistant commissioner, who happens to live in Hambleden. Is that what you’re telling us?”

“Why shouldn’t I have met him?” Freddie asked, beginning to sound panicked. “We got chatting one night last week. I told him about the project. He said he was interested, that he might have some money to invest. So we agreed to meet for breakfast on Tuesday morning.”

“Did he know who you were? That Becca was your ex-wife?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Freddie frowned, thinking back. “I never said so.”

Kincaid shoved his hands in his pockets, paced. “You didn’t know him before?”

“No. Like I said, we just got chatting over drinks.”

“Where? Leander?”

“God, no. The place closes down like a tomb by ten o’clock.” When Freddie didn’t go on, Kincaid stopped pacing and shot him an impatient glance. “Okay, okay,” said Freddie. “It was the strip club, if you must know. But it’s not what it sounds.” He ran a hand through his already unruly hair. “Well, there are girls, but not on a stage or anything. It’s just that it’s the only place in Henley that stays open after the pubs close, so that’s where everyone gravitates. There’s music, and a nice bar, and people having a drink sometimes get talking.”

Kincaid remembered Imogen Bell telling him about the place, and her colleague, DC Bean, giving her a hard time. Well, at the moment, he wasn’t concerned about the city fathers’, or DC Bean’s, definition of moral turpitude. “Okay, Freddie, if you’d never met Craig, can you remember who started the conversation?”

“I’d seen him in the club before. And at Leander, although he must have been a guest, because I don’t think he’s a member.” Freddie stopped, licking his lips. “Could I have some water?”

Doug stood. “I’ll get it.”

Kincaid waited until Doug had filled a glass from the tap and brought it back. When Freddie had drunk half and set the remainder on the coffee table, Kincaid said, “Go on. So you’d seen him before, although not to speak to. But that means he’d seen you as well.”

“I suppose. But I didn’t socialize with Becca at Leander, and she certainly never went to the strip club. I don’t understand this. What does Becca have to do with Angus Craig?”

Kincaid debated how to answer. It seemed obvious that Becca hadn’t told Freddie she’d been raped, or at least hadn’t given him particulars. But considering what Kincaid had begun to learn about Becca Meredith, he doubted she’d said anything at all.

And, as he’d been warned off mentioning her allegations, for the moment he was going to follow suit. “I don’t know. I just think it’s odd, that’s all, you striking up an acquaintance with a retired Met officer a few days before your ex-wife’s murder. And you say he didn’t turn up for the breakfast with you on Tuesday morning. Did he contact you afterwards, offer an explanation?”

“No,” said Freddie. “That morning, Lily said there was an accident on the Marlow Road, so I thought he might have got hung up in traffic. Then—afterwards—I never thought to—”

Kincaid’s phone rang. He swore under his breath, but answered when he saw that the caller was DC Bell.

“Sir.”

He’d have recognized her voice, brisk and competent, without the caller ID.

“You wanted me to let you know. The forensics teams are on their way. And I’ve been to Henley Rowing Club and Upper Thames Rowing Club. No boats reported missing last night, but some of the members keep them racked outside, and no one was keeping a particular watch.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Kincaid said. He had indeed asked her to let him know when the teams were on their way to take in Freddie’s car, and to gather Atterton’s shoes and clothes to test against the footprint and fibers found at the riverbank.

And he’d meant to time his interview accordingly, asking the pertinent questions and leaving Freddie no time to hide or clean anything before the teams arrived. But nothing in this interview was going according to plan.

“Sir?” Bell sounded nonplussed.

“Not you, Bell, sorry. How long before they get here?”

“Half an hour, maybe.”

“Okay, thanks, Detective Bell. And good work on the clubs. I’ll get back to you.” Hanging up, Kincaid shook his head to cut off the question he could see forming on Doug’s lips, then sat down facing Freddie.

“Mr. Atterton—Freddie—there are some officers coming to examine your car and some of your belongings.” Before Freddie could protest, Kincaid held up a hand. “This is just routine, okay? They’ll try not to inconvenience you any more than necessary.”

“Routine? My car? My things? Why would you—what things?” Freddie started to push himself up off the sofa, but Kincaid and Doug had him effectively hemmed in.

“Boots or walking shoes, I would think. And outdoor jackets. But before we get to that, we need to ask you some questions about last night,” Kincaid continued. “Can you tell me what you were doing between seven and nine o’clock?”

“What?” Freddie looked completely befuddled. “Last night? Why on earth do you want to know about last night?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“I was here. I’d had drinks with a mate earlier, across the street. He—he took me to the mortuary.” Freddie stopped and drank the rest of the water in his glass. “But then I came home. I was waiting for Becca’s mum to call from South Africa. She’s not booking her plane ticket until we know what we’re doing about—about funeral arrangements.”

“And did she ring you?”

“Yeah.” Freddie grimaced at the recollection. “Yes, she did. I guess it was about eight, but I’m not sure. I wasn’t watching the time.”

“Did she ring you here, on a landline, or on your mobile?” Kincaid asked.

“Landline. Otherwise it would have cost her a fortune, and Marianne is ever mindful of her pennies.”

Kincaid cocked his head, curious about the evident bitterness. “Do you not get on with Becca’s mother?”

Sighing, Freddie said, “No one got on with anyone, to tell you the truth. Becca and her mum never saw eye to eye on anything, including me. Although I suppose you could say Becca came to agree with her mother’s assessment,” he added ruefully, “but I don’t think that made them any closer. Becca never appreciated
I told you so’s
.

“And Marianne—oh, God, when Marianne finds out Becca left things to me, she’s not going to like that at all.”

It occurred to Kincaid that Freddie Atterton seemed very much alone. “What about your family? Have you been in touch with them? Is there anyone who could stay with you for a bit?”

“I’ve rung my mum. I didn’t want her to find out about Becca from the news. She offered to come, but I think that would be worse than being on my own. My mum can be—a bit much.”

“And your father?”

Freddie’s mouth twisted. “He told Mum to tell me he was sorry.”

“Right.” Obviously there was not much support forthcoming from that quarter. Kincaid wondered what had become of the FLO whom Cullen had assigned to Atterton. “Freddie, has a family liaison officer from the Met been to see you or been in touch?”

Freddie shook his head. “No.”

Had the chief—or whoever was calling the shots at the Yard—conveniently misplaced the FLO? Family liaison officers provided support, advocacy, and ongoing information on the progress of an investigation to family members of victims. And while they weren’t meant to be nannies, the FLO, male or female, often helped the victim’s loved ones cope with grieving, deal with arrangements, and in high-profile cases, acted as a buffer between the family and the media.

Freddie Atterton might have been divorced from Rebecca Meredith, but it seemed he was the one most in need of aid. But he was also—at least according to Chief Superintendent Childs—the most obvious suspect, and while the FLOs’ job was to provide support for the family, they were also police officers. They sometimes learned things that implicated the family in a crime, in which case they were duty-bound to report it. It was a difficult job, rife with conflicts of interest for the officer, but in Atterton’s case Kincaid thought an FLO might be particularly useful.

For the moment, however, he had other agendas to follow. “Becca’s mother—is it Mrs. Meredith?” he asked. When Freddie nodded, Kincaid went on. “We’ll need Mrs. Meredith’s contact information.” They would also be checking Atterton’s phone records, but Kincaid didn’t mention that. He wanted to see if there was any collusion between Freddie and his former mother-in-law before Freddie knew he had no room to wiggle.

“But why?” asked Freddie. “I don’t understand. Why do you care what I was doing last night?”

“Because someone tried to murder one of the search and rescue volunteers who found Becca’s body.”

“Murder?” Freddie’s knuckles turned white as he clutched his empty glass to his chest. “But—why would someone do that?”

Kincaid leaned forward and met Freddie Atterton’s frightened blue eyes. “It struck us that a jealous ex-husband might have had a very good reason. He was Becca’s lover.”

F
reddie simply stared at Kincaid, his face wiped blank of all expression. After a moment, he glanced at Doug, as if for confirmation and asked, “Lover?” His voice shook.

Doug nodded. “His name is Kieran Connolly. Former army medic. Rower. He fixes boats, and he and his dog, a Labrador retriever, were part of the team at the weir.” He studied Freddie. “But then maybe you already know all that.”

“No. No, I’d no idea. I saw him. I saw him that morning. A tall, dark-haired guy with a black dog.” Freddie shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite take it in. “Is he—you said someone
tried
to kill him. Is he okay? What happened to him?”

Kincaid thought that if Freddie were really as surprised as he seemed by the idea of Becca having had a lover, his concern was commendable. “He’s all right except for a gash in the head. But his boatshed isn’t. Someone tried to burn it down and made a pretty good job of it.”

“And he and Becca . . . I never imagined she’d . . .” Freddie laughed. “That’s stupid, I know. She had more than enough reason to have an affair when we were married. And she certainly had every right to—to sleep with whoever she wanted after we were divorced. But I suppose I thought she would have told me . . .”

Looking at Freddie, and thinking about his interview with Kieran last night at Tavie’s, Kincaid realized that the two men were physically very similar. Tall, dark-haired, slender, rower’s physique . . . Was that why Becca had been attracted to Kieran? And were there other similar qualities that were less evident? He suspected that she’d been the stronger personality in both relationships, and that she’d liked it that way, consciously or not.

“Maybe she didn’t want to hurt you,” he suggested. “Or . . .” He thought for a moment, then said, “She told Kieran she didn’t want anyone to know about their relationship because it could be used against her. Do you have any idea what she meant?”

“Used against her?” Freddie shook his head. “No. She certainly didn’t mean by me.”

“You wouldn’t have asked her to deed the title of the cottage back to you?”

“God, no. And even if I had, I gave it to her in the divorce settlement, free and clear. I wouldn’t have had a legal leg to stand on.”

Freddie’s certainty made Kincaid wonder if he had considered asking her to give the cottage back and then abandoned the idea.

In favor of murder?

But Freddie would have to have known that Becca hadn’t changed her will, and given what Kincaid had learned about Becca Meredith, he thought it highly unlikely that she’d shared such details with anyone. Unless, of course, Freddie had just gambled on her not wanting to leave her assets to her mother, and had doubted she’d leave a generous bequest to a stray cats’ home.

Kincaid considered the man sitting before him—shocked, exhausted, frightened. He’d seen murderers who were all of those things, so it was conceivable that Freddie Atterton had murdered his ex-wife and yet could still display those emotions unfeigned.

But Kincaid couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. There were too many things that didn’t add up, and if Freddie had a genuine alibi for last night, it would mean that the attack on Connolly was unrelated to Becca Meredith’s murder. And that, he thought, was beggaring belief.

W
hen the SOCOs had arrived, he’d left Doug to oversee the collection of evidence and the arrangements for towing Freddie’s Audi. Excusing himself, he’d found a quiet space in the old brewery courtyard and rung Detective Constable Imogen Bell.

“Sir,” she said, “is everything all right?”

“Fine. Sorry if I was a bit abrupt earlier. DC Bell, have you had any training in family liaison?”

“Just the basics. Challenging, I thought.”

“Yes, it can be. So . . . how would you fancy a temporary spot of tea-making and hand-holding?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Bell said, with the barest hint of amusement, “I take it that is not a gender-biased assignment. Sir.”

Kincaid grinned. “I am firmly of the opinion that a bloke can make tea and hold hands just as well as any woman, if not better. But in this particular case, I have to admit I think your gender might be to our advantage.”

He’d remembered that Imogen Bell had reminded him of the photos he’d seen of a younger Becca Meredith. And if Becca Meredith’s taste in men had run to type, he thought it worth seeing if the same held true for her ex-husband.