Nocturne with Bonus Material (6 page)

“Have you ever in your life worked in a garden?” There was a hint of mockery in Doug's voice.

“I suspect I know more about gardening than you do about painting and plumbing,” she said, equably enough. “I used to follow my grandparents' gardener in Bucks around like a shadow. How hard can it be, compost and bulbs and things?” She studied him. “What about you? You grew up in St. Alban's, didn't you? Suburban mecca. Surely you must have had a garden.”

He shrugged. “I was at school except for hols from the time I was eight. My dad mowed the lawn with a rotary mower. It was his Sunday relaxation and he wasn't inclined to share.”

Melody knew that Doug was also an only child, and that his father was a barrister from a well-off family that had put Doug down for Eton before he was born. But although Melody's father could be autocratic, stubborn, and infuriating, he and her mother had always been generous with their time and attention.

She had a sudden vision of Doug as a lonely and awkward boy, with a father who couldn't bring himself to give his little son the pleasure of learning to push a lawn mower.

Not wanting him to see compassion in her expression, she studied the fireplace surround, wiping dust from the mantel with a fingertip. “You'll have to give a dinner party, once you're settled,” she said.

“No table. And probably not much else for a while. The only things I'm bringing from the Euston flat are the bed and my audio stuff.”

Several comments sprang to Melody's mind, but none of them seemed appropriate, and all made her feel the color start to rise in her face. God forbid she should start blushing as badly as Doug. “Fresh start?” she asked, instead, keeping her gaze averted.

“Totally. Only thing is, I've no idea where to begin.” He gazed round the room, looking a little lost, as if just now contemplating the enormity of the undertaking. Then he shoved his wire-framed glasses up on his nose and glared at her, as if daring her to contradict him. “I've been told I've no sense of style.”

“Hmm.” Taking in his off-the-rack suit and uninspired tie, Melody thought she might be inclined to agree, but she wasn't about to say so. There was obviously history here. “Well, what
do
you like?”

“That's the trouble.” He shrugged. “I don't know. I hate my flat. It's bare and depressing. And I hate my parents' house. Dark, stuffy, and full of my mum's knickknacks. Nothing was ever meant to be touched.”

“There should be a happy medium somewhere.” Melody turned slowly in a circle as she considered the rooms. She wondered what she would choose for herself if she wiped the slate bare of the hand-medowns from her mum, the things that just “didn't suit anymore” in her parents' Kensington town house. “I'd start by finding some things you like and not worrying about whether they go together,” she said. “There's a great auction room in Chelsea, near the power station in Lot's Road. You could have a look, see what tickles your fancy.”

Good God, had she really said
tickles your fancy
? What was wrong with her today?

But Doug seemed oblivious to any innuendo. He nodded and said, as if it were a novel idea, “I suppose I could.”

“It'll come right. You'll see.” Melody felt suddenly claustrophobic, even in the empty rooms. “I think you've done brilliantly, Doug. I love the house. But I'd better be getting back to Notting Hill.”

“I promised you lunch,” he said.

“Oh. So you did.” She wondered if she could get through lunch without putting her foot farther into her mouth. “What did you have in mind?”

He grinned. “Something very appropriate, I think. Now that I know your deep, dark secret. It's called the Jolly Gardeners.”

Shrugging off Tavie's hand, Kieran popped the latch on Finn's crate and hooked the lead to the dog's collar. “I know who she is,” he said to Tavie, keeping his back turned. He hadn't trusted his face or his voice, not since he'd heard Tavie say her name, dropping it so casually, like a stone tossed into the river.

It had taken a moment for the full weight of it to sink into his mind. Rebecca. Rebecca Meredith. He never thought of her as anything but Becca.

Nor did he automatically connect her with the last name Meredith, although of course he knew it, as any rower would. But Rebecca Meredith was a stranger to him, a woman who wore suits and went off to London on weekday mornings, worked in an office in a police station, left polystyrene coffee cups littered on a desk he'd never seen. A woman who had once been married to this man, Atterton. He knew now why Atterton's face had seemed familiar. He'd seen a younger version in a few old photos, collecting dust at the back of a bookcase in Becca's sitting room.

Rebecca Meredith was not the woman who rowed as easily as most people breathe, who laughed as she pushed damp hair from her eyes and lifted a boat to her hip, or pulled the sheet up over a bare shoulder gilded by lamplight.

“Becca,” he whispered.
Please let it not be Becca
. But he knew all too well that she took the scull out at dusk, and that the best he could hope was that there was some completely rational explanation for her disappearance. He was letting his mind play games, and that was a dangerous indulgence.

Finn pushed against him and licked his chin. He knew it was time to go to work, didn't understand Kieran's hesitation. “Good boy,” Kieran said, and stepped back so that Finn could jump down.

The dogs greeted each other with sniffs and wagging tails, but their attention came quickly back to their handlers. Tavie was watching him with an expression of concern that bordered on apprehension, so he forced a smile.

“You look like shit,” Tavie said. The smile hadn't fooled her for a second.

“You're always one for the compliments.” His stab at their usual banter sounded false even to him. “I'm okay, really.” He nodded towards the bag she'd taken from her kit in the truck. “Let's get on with it. What have you got for the dogs?”

“I raided the laundry hamper when we cleared the cottage to make sure she wasn't there. It was a treasure trove—socks or undies for every team. But let's get over the fence first.” Tavie led the way through the gate, with Tosh crabbing sideways and stepping on her boots in her eagerness. Finn seemed unusually subdued, and Kieran knew the dog was picking up on his mood.

When they were clear of the fence, with only the muddy expanse of meadow between them and the river path, Tavie stopped. She and Kieran unclipped both dogs' leads, then, slipping on gloves, she opened the bag—bags, really, as a paper bag was nestled inside the plastic one—and pulled out a white scrap of fabric. A woman's stretchy knickers, the utilitarian, moisture-wicking kind that absorbed sweat from a rowing workout. A perfect scent article, and horribly familiar to Kieran.

Tavie held the pants out to the dogs, an inch from their noses. “Smell it, Tosh. Smell it, Finn,” she encouraged in the high, singsong voice that made the dogs quiver with excitement.

The dogs sniffed obediently, and Kieran imagined, as he always did, the rush of scent molecules flowing into their noses and triggering the receptors in their brains, a sensation that humans could never duplicate. For the first time, the idea made him feel sick rather than envious.

Traffic crackled over the radio as the teams on either side of the river marked their positions, and Kieran heard the distant drone of a helicopter. Thames Valley Police had got the chopper up. The chopper would search the area simultaneously, using both sight and thermal imaging.

Tucking the pants back into her pack, Tavie said, “Find her, Tosh, find!”

But before Kieran could echo the command to Finn, both dogs began to whine and paw at his legs. Finn jumped up, putting his front paws on Kieran's chest, his signal for a find.

“Finn, off.” Kieran pushed the dog down as Tavie stared at him.

“Kieran, what the hell? Did you touch any of my kit?”

He knew she was worried about more than confusing the dogs. She'd have signed off on chain of evidence for all the scent articles and would be responsible if anything had been contaminated.

“Of course not. I haven't been near your pack.” It was only half a lie. He tried to pull himself together. “Come on, we're losing ground here.” Turning to the dogs, he clapped his hands. “Finn! Find her!” he managed, but he couldn't bring himself to say her name. He began to trot towards the river, the signal for Finn to begin checking the scent cone. Tavie followed, and the dogs quickly ranged out in front of them, falling into their familiar zigzag pattern.

The wind was blowing upriver, the ideal working condition for the dogs, but he knew the morning's heavy rain would have seriously reduced the dogs' chances of finding an air scent.

Just as they reached the river, they heard the team directly across the river on the radio. Scott's voice came through intermittently. “Dogs . . . alerting . . . can't—”

“They're just opposite us,” said Tavie, then called Tosh to her with the
Wait
command. “Look. Can you see them? They should be just there, where Benham's Wood comes down to the water.”

Kieran skidded to a halt behind her, gazing past the end of Temple Island towards the cluster of trees on the far side of the river. Then he saw a flash of liver and white as Scott's springer spaniel broke through the heavy cover at the water's edge, followed an instant later by his partner Sarah's golden retriever.

The dogs bounced excitedly as Scott and Sarah appeared behind them, but neither dog ran back to its handler to signal a find.

The handlers came to the bank, squatted, and reached out. Sarah's voice, a little high, came over the radio just as Kieran made out what they were pulling free of the reeds. “It's a boat,” she said. “We've found the boat.”

It floated hull up, the distinctive colors—white with a thin blue stripe—visible from across the water. One slender oar was still fastened in its oarlock.

“It's a Filippi.” Somehow it infuriated Kieran that Sarah didn't know. “What—”

“No sign of the victim,” Scott chimed in. “And the dogs aren't alerting strongly on either the water or the bank.”

Kieran keyed his radio again. “Check the trainers.” He saw Scott look up at him, and even at a distance Kieran could see he didn't understand. “Turn the boat over. Check the Velcro straps on the trainers.”

“Kieran,” said Tavie, “the boat's evidence.”

“Just do it,” he told Scott, ignoring her. Rowers slipped their feet into shoes that were glued to the footboard of the shell. And while it was possible to get one's feet free without unfastening the Velcro closures—the shoes weren't meant to be tight—Kieran felt an illogical hope that if Becca had released the tabs, she might have swum free.

He saw Scott shrug, then lean forward, struggling to right the shell, soaking himself in the process. “You'll have to release the oar,” Kieran said into the radio. “Just unscrew the lock.”

Scott fumbled, his mouth moving in a silent swear, handing the pink-bladed oar to Sarah. Then he had the shell right side up and was peering into the stern. “They're open, the Velcro things.”

“Okay, don't touch anything else,” broke in Tavie. “Scott, you and Sarah will have to stay there and secure the scene for the police. I'll have another team leapfrog you on that side, as chances are they're not going to find anything upstream. Kieran and I will continue on to Hambleden Lock on this side.”

Scott gave her a wave of acknowledgment, but Kieran was already turning away, sending Finn out with an arm signal and the
Find
command. Tosh shot out to join Finn, a black and tan streak momentarily merging with Finn's black silhouette, then she moved away from the Labrador, settling into her own search pattern.

Kieran heard Tavie on the radio, the words unintelligible, fading as they were caught by the wind, then the crunch of her booted feet on the gravel as she jogged to catch up with him.

“If she kicked herself free, she could be caught somewhere, injured,” he said. “Or unconscious.” He scanned the opposite bank. There was no way to cross the river without going back to Henley or on to Hambleden Lock.

“Kieran, even if she did kick free, she's been in the water all night. You know how cold it is.” Tavie's fingers brushed his arm, slowing him until he had to look at her. “You need to leave the search. Now.”

He saw that she wasn't angry at his insubordination, but afraid for him.

Shaking his head, he said, “I can't. I've got to see—she might be hurt . . .”

The drone of the chopper grew louder. Looking up, Kieran saw it downriver, moving slowly, inexorably, towards them.

Tavie raised her voice against the increasing noise. “They're not picking up anything on the thermal imaging.” She was telling him that if Becca was there, she was cold. Too cold.

“She could be hypothermic, under cover somewhere.” But they were passing the manicured grounds of the business college at Greenlands across the river now, and the meadow ran down to the path on their own side. There was no easy cover on either bank.

This time Tavie didn't contradict him, but settled in beside him at a steady trot. The dogs were working fast, but she didn't slow them down, and he knew it was because she didn't believe they would find anything here.

The path turned and Hambleden Mill came into view across the river, its perfect mirror image below it in the water, like a painting on glass. Above it, dark clouds were building once more, a bruise against the sky.

On the near side, the water was flowing faster, rushing towards the weir. It flowed between the stanchions of the footbridge in great molten sheets the color of peat, and poured over the terraced weir in foaming, plunging chaos. A piece of driftwood had hung on one of the terraces, a crabbed, dark shape, dividing the water like a body.