No Mark Upon Her (27 page)

Kieran frowned. “It’s been what, five days? And I’ve been there, not to mention your forensics team have been over it with a fine-tooth comb. Tavie’s the expert, but I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”

As if he knew they were talking about him, Finn gave a whuffled groan and raised his head.

“The dogs might react if they had some sort of emotional connection to the scent”—Kieran went on, without meeting Kincaid’s eyes—“like, um, a significant event, or if they recognized a person they already knew.”

Finn stood, yawning, then came over and settled at Kieran’s feet. “But they could just as easily be interested because that person had sausages for breakfast,” Kieran continued. “You’re fickle beasties, aren’t you?” he said to Finn, leaning over to stroke the dog’s head.

“Okay, thanks,” Kincaid said, disappointed. “It was a long shot, anyway.”

Kieran met his eyes then, his gaze clear and direct. “You think you know who did it.”

“I have no evidence,” Kincaid answered.

What he’d hoped was that if Melody and Gemma got an ID on Craig in the Jenny Hart case, the dogs might provide a strong enough link between Becca Meredith’s murder scene and Craig to justify a search warrant for Craig’s car and belongings.

He wanted Craig for Jenny Hart, but he wanted him for Becca Meredith even more.

“Look, Kieran,” he said, standing. “He’s still out there, and you’re still the only person who might have seen him on the river. Stay here for a while longer. And don’t go out on your own at night.”

When Kincaid reached the door, he turned back. “Oh, and by the way, that boat you were building? The one you were worried about? We had your next-door neighbor lock it in his shed.”

He said good-bye, without much assurance that Kieran would take his advice, but he couldn’t put everyone who’d been connected to Becca Meredith under lock and key for their own safety.

The day was warming as he walked back into Market Place. He stopped, checking his watch. It was only ten o’clock. It would be at least another two hours before he could expect to hear from Gemma. And he had no doubt that her report would be firsthand. In spite of his cautions, she was just as much a police officer as he was, and she would want to hear the witness statement herself.

In the meantime, he was bloody well going to find Freddie Atterton.

H
e tried the bar at the Hotel du Vin, even though it was early, just in case Freddie’s no-alcohol resolution had been short-lived, but without success.

Then he walked across the bridge to Leander. Not that he didn’t trust DC Bell’s thoroughness, but it was possible that she and Freddie could have come and gone at cross-purposes. Still no joy, however, although he spoke to the lovely Lily in reception, then checked the dining room, the bars, and the crew quarters.

After returning to reception and thanking Lily, an impulse led him to walk out the French doors and onto the small balcony that overlooked the river and the regatta meadows. The fields were empty now, the green sweep of grass marred only by the concrete stanchions that would support the enclosures come June.

Kincaid had never been to Henley Royal Regatta, but he’d seen photos and videos. He imagined the crowds, the marquees, the sun sparkling on the water, and all the rowers and racing shells going out from the starting rafts, a symphony of color and motion.

Would Becca have been among next year’s rowers, racing to prove she had what it took for the Olympics?

He heard the creak of the door behind him and turned to see Milo Jachym.

“Lily said you were looking for Freddie,” said Milo. “Is he all right?”

“He walked out of his flat last night and hasn’t come back. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“He rang me last night but I was in the gym. He didn’t leave a message, and he didn’t answer when I tried ringing back.” Milo frowned. “He didn’t take his car?”

“No.”

“He won’t have gone to his parents, then.” Milo shook his head and, like Kincaid, gazed out across the meadows. “I’d never have thought he’d take it so hard, Becca’s death. Freddie always seemed like one of those blessed few who would slide through life without a hiccough. He had everything—looks, connections, talent. But the charm’s grown thinner the last few years. It’s as if he’s had to make an effort to hold everything together.”

Studying the man beside him, Kincaid wondered if Milo Jachym had been jealous. He had the sense that nothing had come easily to Milo—this man had had to grab opportunities and hang on to them with a coxswain’s tenaciousness. And it was certainly possible that his relationship with Becca Meredith had been more complicated than that of coach and crew member. “You knew Freddie and Becca for a long time,” he said.

“Since they were both still at university. They had such promise, both of them. But there was a worm in it somewhere.” Milo sounded infinitely sad.

Shrugging, he straightened, the briskness back in full force. “And I’ve got a crew to get on the river for a second session. When you find Freddie, tell him to ring me.” He started down the stairs to the boatyard, then turned back to Kincaid. “Have you tried the cottage? That’s the one place Freddie might see as a last refuge.”

K
incaid considered going back for his car, which he’d left in the Greys Road car park near the police station. But he suspected that if he did, the incident room would suck him in like a magnet, and he still felt that invisibility was the better part of valor until he knew what they had on Craig.

He would walk to Remenham. He’d driven the distance, after all, and it hadn’t seemed that far.

He soon discovered that although the lane looked idyllic, the hamlet was considerably farther than he’d remembered. By the time he reached Becca Meredith’s cottage, he was warm, even in the lightweight leather jacket he’d worn that day, and he’d have given a king’s ransom for his trainers.

The cottage looked less tidy by daylight, the lack of routine maintenance more evident. The hedges needed trimming, the lawn needed cutting, and the paint round the front porch was beginning to peel.

The front gate was off the latch, and as Kincaid stepped through it, he realized the cottage’s front door was standing ajar. A dozen scenarios ran through his head in an instant, none of them pleasant.

He stopped, his heart pounding, examining what he could see of the house and the garden. After lecturing Gemma about being careful, he didn’t need to be the one who carelessly walked into a dangerous situation.

There was no sound, no movement. Then he saw the footprints. There had been heavy dew that morning, and the overlong grass in the front garden, which had been shaded by the hedge, was still damp. A distinct single line of footprints led from the front porch into the grass, and around the side of the cottage.

Kincaid followed cautiously. When he rounded the corner of the house, he saw Freddie Atterton standing at the far end of the garden, looking out over the river. He wore jeans and a faded Oxford-blue T-shirt, and his feet were bare.

“Freddie,” Kincaid said quietly, and Atterton turned.

“Oh. It’s you.” The smile Freddie gave Kincaid was tentative, and he seemed a little disoriented.

“Are you all right?” Kincaid asked, going closer. He saw that the Oxford-blue T-shirt really was Oxford blue—it bore the Oxford University Boat Club emblem on the front. “You’ve had us all a bit worried. Especially DC Bell.”

“Imogen. Nice name. Pretty girl.” The smile was a little stronger this time, then Freddie’s brow creased in a frown. “She was looking for me?”

“You haven’t checked your messages.”

“No. Turned the bloody phone off. Press.”

“You’ve been here since last night?”

Freddie nodded.

“What are you doing out here in the garden?” Kincaid asked, as gently as he would have asked one of his children.

“I wanted—I just wanted to see—” Freddie stopped, his teeth chattering. Kincaid saw that the legs of his jeans were soaked halfway to the knees from the damp grass, as were his own trousers. “You can’t quite make it out from here,” Freddie went on. “Temple Island. But she was so close.”

“Yes,” Kincaid agreed. “She was.” Just as matter-of-factly, he added, “You seem to have lost your shoes.”

“Oh.” Freddie looked down, and seemed surprised to see that he was barefoot. He touched the front of his shirt. “I found these. My things from uni. In the wardrobe. She’d saved them.” There were tears in his eyes.

“I think,” Kincaid said reasonably, “that we should go inside, have a cup of tea, and get warm. Then we can talk about it. All right?”

I
t was obvious from the rumpled duvet on the sofa that Freddie had slept there, and not upstairs in the bedroom. Kincaid couldn’t blame him. Sleeping in one’s dead ex-wife’s bed would be bad enough. Sleeping in the bed you now knew your dead ex-wife had shared with another man would be even worse.

“You should change,” he suggested as he followed Freddie into the room.

“I’ll dry. I’m a rower, remember? Or I was, anyway. Wet is a fact of life for rowers.”

The sitting room was cold in spite of the bright day, as it had been the first time Kincaid had come to the cottage. “Why don’t you light the fire, then? I’m not quite as hardy as you. I’ll make us something hot.”

He found tea bags in the kitchen—Tetley’s. Apparently Becca’s taste had run to down-to-earth. A plastic jug in the fridge was half full of milk that was just skating its use-by date. When he had the kettle on, Kincaid glanced back into the sitting room and asked, “Milk and sugar?”

Freddie nodded. “Lots of both. Another old rower’s habit. Never let a good calorie pass you by.” Having lit the gas fire, he pushed the duvet aside and sat on the sofa, then began to shuffle what looked like old photos that were spread out on the small coffee table.

When Kincaid had filled two mugs, skipping the sugar in his, and deciding at the last minute to pass on the milk as well, he carried them into the sitting room and took the chair nearest Freddie. “What are you looking at?” he asked, handing over Freddie’s mug.

“She saved these, too. I’d no idea. I was looking for a pen and I found them stuffed in the drawer of the writing desk.” He began to turn the photos so that they faced Kincaid.

In every one, Kincaid saw a much younger Freddie, in Oxford rowing kit. In several, he was at stroke in an eight, his face contorted with a grimace of effort. Several seemed to be at parties or after races. In one, a much younger Becca was pouring a bottle of champagne over his head, and they were both laughing.

Freddie picked that one up and ran a finger over its surface. “It was the second year I was in the Blue Boat,” he said. “We’d just got engaged. No surprise it was Ross who put Becca up to the champagne.”

“Ross?”

“My mate who took me to—” He faltered, drank a sip of his tea. “To the mortuary,” he went on. “We were all at uni together, Becca and me, and Ross and his wife, Chris.”

Freddie nodded at a framed photo of the same Boat Race crew on Becca’s bookshelf. “See, there he is. That one was taken right before the race. Ross was a last-minute substitution from Isis, the second boat.”

Kincaid saw a stocky young man, smiling, as were all the crew, with what looked like a mixture of pride and nerves. “I thought maybe the champagne was a Boat Race celebration.”

“Not for the losing crew. We were nearly swamped that year. Could have bloody drowned. I think Becca—I don’t know. Things were never quite the same after that. Maybe that marked me as a failure in her eyes.”

“It was just a race,” Kincaid said.

Freddie stared at him as if he’d gone utterly daft. “It was the
Boat Race
. Nothing afterwards ever quite lives up to that, whether you win or lose. But Becca, she wanted me to win, even more than I did.”

“Was she jealous of you, of your opportunity?” Kincaid asked, thinking of everything he’d learned about Becca Meredith. “That was the one thing she could never do, row in the Boat Race.”

Freddie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Maybe. It never occurred to me. Maybe that was why it mattered so much.”

“Your loss was her loss.”

“She took it hard. Not just angry. Not just disappointed. She was . . . bitter.” He shrugged. “We went on, got married, as if things were the same. But they weren’t. Then—well, you know what happened then.”

“The Olympic trials. Her injury. Her failure.”

Freddie nodded. “I didn’t think we would get through that. But then she went into the job, and for a while, things got better. She put all that ferocious energy into work. But there was always a distance between us, a wall, and I could never break through it.”

“And, eventually, you sought solace.” Kincaid said it without censure.

Freddie’s smile twisted. “I suppose you could call it that. But it never helped. Now I keep wondering if there was anything I could have done that would have made a difference. And I’ll never know.”

It was true. There was nothing Kincaid could say that would change it. And now he knew that the things he would have to say at some point would only increase the burden of Freddie’s guilt, at least in Freddie’s eyes.

If Freddie and Becca had stayed married, Angus Craig might never have had the opportunity to rape Becca. And Becca might not be dead.

Kincaid looked round the cottage, realizing that when he’d been here the first time, on Tuesday evening, he’d had no knowledge of what had happened here.

Now, in his mind’s eye, he saw again the crime-scene photos from Jenny Hart’s flat, and imagined this room, and Becca, violated. He felt sick.

“What is it?” asked Freddie. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Kincaid met his eyes, and in that instant he made a decision. Freddie would have to know what had happened to Becca.

But not yet. Because with knowledge would come rage, and if Freddie sought out Angus Craig, Kincaid had no way to protect him from the consequences.

Chapter
Twenty

We are all proudly
wearing the OUBC Race Day kit. Today we earn the highest sporting honour of
our university, the Oxford Blue. Only a select number of sports are eligible
and a Blue can be awarded only in competition against Cambridge
. . . To be awarded the rowing Blue you must pass the Fulham Wall,
about two minutes down the course. The cruelty of sinking would be doubled
if it happened before that point. [David Livingston]

—David and James Livingston

Blood Over
Water

T
he
Churchill Arms was just as cluttered as Melody had described it. It was also
packed, suffocatingly warm, and reeked of boiled veg and roasted meat.

Gemma was early, so she’d slipped inside to absorb
a bit of the atmosphere while she waited for Melody. Patrons were carrying
drinks onto the pavement, so it was easy enough for her to stand to one side of
the crush milling about the door. Having dressed casually, in a skirt and boots,
she attempted a studied nonchalance, and thought it was a good thing she’d never
had to work undercover.

It was a beautiful, crisp day, and having asked
Betty Howard to watch Charlotte and Toby for a few hours, Gemma had walked the
short distance from Notting Hill to the Churchill Arms. She’d glanced down
Campden Street, where Jenny Hart had lived, and like Melody, she’d felt chilled
at the thought of the murderer striking so close to home. The initial call would
have gone to Kensington Station; otherwise it would have come across Gemma’s
desk. Not that she’d have got any further than the major crimes team that had
eventually been assigned to the case. They’d done a good job with what they
had.

She kept thinking of Melody—young, attractive,
single—a perfect target for Angus Craig. Maybe it was a good thing for Melody’s
sake that Craig seemed to have upped his game, going after more senior female
officers.

Now, of course, Melody was forewarned, but there
were too many other potential victims who were not. They needed to put the
bastard out of action altogether, and soon.

Gemma watched the waitstaff, moving busily between
bar and kitchen and tables in the pub’s crowded rooms, and wondered which of the
girls might be their witness.

“Boss,” said Melody in her ear, and Gemma started.
“You still look like a copper,” Melody added, giving her a quick and nervous
smile.

“Same to you. And you nearly gave me heart failure.
Have you got the photos?”

“Of course.” Melody touched her handbag, which was
capacious enough to carry off a good bit of the pub’s Churchill memorabilia.
“That’s the manager,” she added, nodding at a tall young woman behind the bar.
“Theresa.”

“And the other girl?” Gemma asked.

“Let’s find out. And I’m just going to introduce
you as my colleague, okay? No names. Just in case—well, let’s not go there.”

Gemma stopped her friend with a touch on the arm.
“Melody, are you sure about this? It could mean—you could seriously damage your
career by doing this. Or worse.”

“If she doesn’t ID him, we’ve nothing to lose. It
was just a dead-end Sapphire lead. If she does give us a positive, I’ll do
whatever it takes. Same as you.” Melody’s conviction was absolute.

“Right,” said Gemma, and followed her to the bar.
She stood back as Melody talked to the manager. The noise level in the pub was
so high that she caught only a few words, but when she saw the manager nod
towards the girl who was pulling pints at the bar’s far end, her heart sank.

The barmaid was plump and freckled, with bleached
blond hair pulled up in a knot on top of her head, and a splatter of colorful
tattoos down her bare arms. When she came over, at the manager’s signal, Gemma
saw that the girl was older than she’d first thought, perhaps in her
mid-twenties.

“Ros,” said the manager. “These are the ladies from
the police.”

Gemma moved in close enough to hear Melody ask, “Is
there somewhere we can talk?”

“There’s an empty table back by the kitchen,” the
barmaid answered. “Quieter there.” Turning, she led them through a maze of rooms
into, much to Gemma’s surprise, a little indoor garden. It was quieter and
cooler, and the three of them squeezed themselves round a small table in the
corner.

“The ferny grotto, I call it,” said Ros. Her
accent, Gemma realized, was educated and middle class.

“Theresa said you wanted to talk to me about Jenny
Hart,” the girl continued, looking at them earnestly. Gemma added forthright and
confident as bonuses to the accent, and her hopes rose.

She felt no embarrassment for her bias—she’d been
on the job long enough to know that a middle-class witness was automatically
given more credence. And, she thought, studying Ros more closely, if you put a
long-sleeved blouse on the girl, she might clean up very well.

“So you remember Jenny Hart?” asked Melody.

“Of course I do,” Ros said with some asperity. “She
came in two or three nights a week, at least, and I served her if I could.” She
shook her head, looking stricken. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard what had
happened to her.”

“How did you come to know her name?” asked Gemma,
forgetting for a moment that she was playing the subordinate role.

Melody gave her a quelling glance and added, “It’s
a busy place, and you must serve hundreds of customers in a day.”

“Not that many women come in regularly on their
own. And she was friendly, always had a nice word for all the staff.”

“Did you know she was a police officer?” Melody
asked.

“Not until one night a few months before she
was—before she died. There was a bit of aggro—couple of blokes old enough to
know better started a row over a football match. Jenny stood up—straight as a
die after two martinis, mind you—pulled out her warrant card and gave them their
marching orders.” Ros smiled at the recollection. “They marched, too. She was
not going to be messed about and they could tell.

“After that, we talked more. I was thinking of
going into criminal justice, and she was nice enough to give me advice.”

“And did you?” asked Melody. “Go into criminal
justice?”

“No. I’m reading law.”

Gemma didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or
horrified. The fact that this young woman was clever was certainly in their
favor—the fact that she would understand what she was getting into might not
be.

Melody opened her bag, and Gemma’s heart sped up.
Even though they’d moved away from the rooms with open fires, she suddenly felt
much too warm.

“Ros,” said Melody. “You told the police that Jenny
was here the night she was killed. And that you thought you saw her talking to a
man. Can you tell me about that?”

Ros nodded. “It was a Saturday—well, you know that.
Place was packed to the gills. I served Jenny a couple of martinis at the bar.
Vodka with just a whisper of vermouth, and a twist—just the way she liked them.
I remember she looked tired.” Ros shifted in her chair and crossed her tattooed
forearms across her chest.

“People were shoving to get served, so after the
second drink, she moved back a bit. Then I saw her talking to a bloke.” Ros
frowned. “I got the impression that she knew him—I’m not sure why. When you work
in a bar and you watch people all the time, you just get a feel for the body
language. This was different from a stranger pickup.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I
think this guy bought her a drink, but I’m not sure. I didn’t serve him. Then I
lost sight of them. That’s all,” Ros added, sounding as if she was terribly
disappointed in herself. “When the police came to talk to us after they’d found
her body, I couldn’t believe it. If I’d only paid more attention—”

“Stop,” said Melody. “Right now. You mustn’t even
begin to think that way. Nothing that happened was your fault. But you
can
help us now.” She leaned forward, her elbows on
the table. “You weren’t able to give the police much of a description, even with
the help of the sketch artist.”

Ros shook her head in obvious frustration. “He was
just . . . ordinary. And I wasn’t trying to remember.” She thought for
a moment. “I know he was older—he reminded me of my uncle John. Fair-skinned,
hair receding a bit. Slightly stocky build. Not tall. But when the police artist
put together features, nothing gelled.”

“Had you seen him before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again? It’s
been six months.”

Ros looked at Melody, then Gemma, her expression
anxious now. “I don’t know. But I think so. It’s not the sort of thing you
forget.”

“Okay,” said Melody. “Not to worry. I’m going to
show you a photo of a group of men. You tell us if any of them look familiar.
It’s that easy.”

From her bag, she took the photo of Angus Craig in
a group of other senior officers, all in evening dress. There was nothing about
him, Gemma thought, that stood out. Unless you knew.

She realized she was holding her breath.

Taking the photo carefully, Ros studied it, her
eyes flicking from one side of the picture to the other. Then she stared
straight at it and gave a little gasp.

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. That’s him.” She
touched a black-lacquered fingertip to the man who stood dead center in the
group. Angus Craig.

K
incaid had returned to the incident room, courtesy of a ride from DC
Bell, when he got Gemma’s call.

“We’ve got him,” she said, her voice vibrating with
suppressed excitement.

He closed his eyes. It was too good to be true. “In
writing?”

“Signed and sworn. Melody took the girl into
Notting Hill Station to make her statement. She’s a law student, so she knows
what she’s doing. Her name is Rosamond Koether. We explained—Melody
explained”—Gemma corrected quickly—“that making a formal identification might
cause personal . . . difficulties . . . for her. We
suggested that she stay with friends for at least a few days, and not give out
her whereabouts. She still insisted on making a statement.”

“Do you think she could pick him out of an identity
lineup?”

“Without a doubt. Melody showed her the photo of
him in a group at the Commissioner’s Ball. She picked him out without any
hesitation. Melody’s sent the statement to Doug at the Yard.”

“Right. Good.” Kincaid struggled to collect
himself. He realized he’d believed it was pie-in-the-sky, the idea that a
witness could reliably tie Craig to Jenny Hart on the night of her murder.

Of course, the Crown Prosecution Service wouldn’t
consider this girl’s statement sufficient for a murder charge, but a judge
should deem it merited a warrant for a DNA test, and that was all they
needed.

If
they were right. God
help them if they were wrong.

“Still there, love?” asked Gemma.

“Oh, yes. Miles away. Sorry.” DC Bell, DC Bean, and
DI Singla were all watching him curiously. “I think it’s time to have a word
with the guv’nor,” he said to Gemma. “Face-to-face.”

I
mogen
Bell caught him up as he was leaving the station for the car.

He’d merely told the assembled team that he had an
urgent lead on another case in London, and that he’d be back with them as soon
as possible.

“Can I walk with you?” asked DC Bell. She’d been
unable to conceal her relief when he’d rung from Remenham with the news that
Freddie Atterton was all right.

When she’d picked them up, however, she’d been
decidedly frosty with Atterton until he’d apologized nicely for worrying her,
and promised to keep his phone turned on in future.

“Of course,” Kincaid said.

She fell into step beside him, and with her long
legs she had no trouble keeping up. The wind blowing down Greys Road scattered
strands of her light brown hair across her face, which she pushed away
impatiently. “This case in London—is it connected to this one?”

He considered prevaricating, but a glance at her
intent face made him decide against it. “I don’t know. It’s possible. But I
can’t say anything about it until I know more.”

“It’s a murder, isn’t it? And you have a
witness.”

He looked at her more sharply. “Have you ever
considered a career in journalism, DC Bell?”

“Sorry.” She didn’t sound at all contrite. “It’s
just that—does this case affect Mr. Atterton? If it’s on my watch, I think I
should know.”

She was right, Kincaid had to admit. But he
couldn’t afford for this lovely young woman to come to Craig’s attention. She
had just the sort of confident personality that Craig seemed increasingly driven
to crush.

And he certainly couldn’t afford for Craig to get
even an inkling of an idea that they actually had something on him.

“Yes, you should know,” he said. “But it’s
complicated. And there may be—repercussions. I promise I’ll tell you as much as
I can, as soon as I can.”

They’d reached the car park. He stopped, turning to
her. “Look, Imogen. I really do have to go. But in the meanwhile, just keep a
reasonable eye on Freddie. I think he’ll be more cooperative now. And don’t tell
anyone we have a witness in a connected case. Got that?” He jabbed a finger at
her for emphasis.
“Anyone.”

A
lthough Kieran had badgered all and sundry—especially Tavie, who had no
control whatsoever in the matter—about getting back into his boatshed, now that
he’d been given permission, he found himself delaying.

After Superintendent Kincaid had left, Kieran
tidied the flat, finished the washing, and made himself a cheese and pickle
sandwich for lunch although he still felt guilty about eating Tavie’s
provisions. Perhaps he’d pick up some things for dinner on his way
back . . .

On his way back from the shed.

Sitting at Tavie’s small table, holding his
half-finished sandwich, he saw that his hands were shaking, and he realized he
didn’t want to go home. Not to stay. Not yet.