“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.
A roaring filled Kieran’s ears. He couldn’t tell if the sound came from within his head or without.
The dogs stayed on the footpath, their pattern tighter now, their tails moving with increased energy. Beyond the weir, the still-turbulent water swirled and eddied into a stand of partially submerged trees and the brush that had collected against them.
Both dogs now homed in on the bank itself. Tosh sniffed the edge, then lowered herself until her muzzle was just level with the water’s surface. She looked as if she were lapping the water, delicately, like a dog at a tea party, but Kieran knew she was taking in scent molecules with her tongue. Finn whined and danced beside her.
Tosh backed up and woofed, looking to Tavie for direction. Tavie knelt, a hand on the dog’s harness. The current was still strong—she wouldn’t want Tosh going in if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Tavie shielded her eyes from the glare on the water, leaning forward perilously as she peered into the nest of tree trunks and debris. When she stiffened, Kieran dropped to his knees beside her.
Tavie turned to him, pushing him back as if she could keep him from seeing what she had seen. But it was too late.
Beneath the surface, tendrils of dark hair moved like moss, and white fingers, slightly curled, drifted back and forth as if waving, signaling for help.
“No,” said Kieran. “No.” And the roaring overtook him.
Chapter Four
Depending on the season, the Thames flows between (for the most part) wild and unwalled riverbanks hurriedly and muddily, or peacefully and translucently. On certain days its waters resemble a fine mass of shimmering, metallic, luminous blue. On some evenings it looks like a mirror reflecting the sky from which it seems to issue.
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney 2000 Coxless Four
“An Astra,” said Kit. “An Astra Estate. And green. What could possibly be worse?”
Duncan Kincaid glanced at his son sitting beside him in the passenger seat, long legs sprawled into the foot well, and bit his tongue on old adages about horses and gifts. He reminded himself that he had hated being patronized when he was Kit’s age. He also remembered what it was like to be fourteen, when nothing mattered more than what others thought.
Kit had been unusually quiet as they drove up through Somerset and Wiltshire, concentrating on his iPod Touch rather than the beautiful autumnal scenery. It was only now, when they had joined the M4 and passed through the unexciting edges of Swindon, that he’d stirred and removed his earphones.
“That’s a bit ungracious, don’t you think?” Kincaid said moderately.
“I’m not being seen getting out of it at school.” Kit’s expression was mulish. “And I’m certainly not going to drive it.”
Kincaid was beginning to lose patience. “You’ve got a few years before you even need to think about driving, so let’s worry about that one when we get to it,” he said, although he was sure his mum and dad had been thinking exactly that when they had offered Duncan and Gemma their old car. The Astra Estate was old, solid, comfortable, and supremely safe—all things anathema to a fourteen-year-old boy.
His dad had presented the car with all the glee of a first-time parent playing at Father Christmas. Kincaid suspected that if it hadn’t been for the rain, he might actually have wrapped it in ribbon. “Your mother wants something greener,” he’d said, then chuckled at his own inadvertent humor. “More ecologically correct, that is. Not that the Astra’s bad, mind you. But we thought you could use the extra carrying space, now that you have Charlotte with you.”
Kincaid had to admit he was right. The three kids had been stuffed into the back of Gemma’s Escort on the journey down to Somerset, and there had been tears and tantrums aplenty. They did need a bigger car, but he’d been too busy with work and the recent demands of family life to really give the matter serious consideration, not to mention that Gemma’s recent unpaid leave had seriously cut into their budget—as would his.
He still had his old MG, although he seldom drove it these days. The maintenance on it was a nightmare, but he was reluctant to sell it for the pittance it was worth. He had once rashly promised Kit that he would keep the Midget until he learned to drive, and he hated going back on a promise to his son. Now, however, the thought of Kit actually driving the little car horrified him—only slightly more than contemplating what it would cost to insure him if he did so.
His dad had given him an easy out. “I could come up to London and drive the Midget back to Cheshire,” Hugh had offered. “Keep it in the garage, do some restoration. Get it in tip-top shape.” When Kincaid, who had never seen his dad do more than change a tire, raised an eyebrow, Hugh had given him a sly wink. “Never too old,” he’d added.
Gemma had hugged Hugh, then his mum, Rosemary, who had left her packing to join in the surprise. “You are dears,” Gemma said. “But are you sure? How will you get back to Nantwich?”
“Not to worry,” Rosemary assured her. “Jack will run us to the train. And the new car’s ordered—it should be waiting for us when we get home.”
Looking at his parents, it had seemed to Kincaid that his father was a little thinner, and his mother a little grayer, than when he had seen them last. They were unfailingly generous, taking into their lives first Kit, the grandson whose existence they had not even imagined, then Toby, and now Charlotte. He loved them for it, and he realized that he told them so too seldom.
He’d given his mother a kiss on the cheek and his father a manly sort of hug-with-handshake. “Thank you. The car’s brilliant. And it means we’ll be able to come visit you mo
re often.”
Toby had begun jumping up and down, shouting, “The dogs can come now, too, the dogs can come, too,” and was soon joined in the jumping by Charlotte. Jack and Winnie stood on the porch, holding Constance and grinning.
The only one not enthusiastic had been Kit, who stood with arms crossed, frowning. Kit had begged to go back to Cheshire with his cousins, Duncan’s sister Juliet’s children, for the rest of the half-term break. But as much as Kincaid loved his niece, Lally, he hadn’t liked the idea of the two teenagers on their own without his or Gemma’s supervision. Not that he and Gemma had kept them from getting into real trouble before, he thought with the shudder that always accompanied the memory of the previous Christmas.
Now, he looked at Kit, fidgeting and scowling beside him, and wondered if there was more bothering him than the car and the end-of-holiday blues.
As they’d had two cars to drive back to London, Gemma had taken Toby and Charlotte in the Escort, and Kincaid had thought that taking Kit in the Astra would give them some quality time together.
“Maybe we could go to Nantwich over Christmas,” he said, realizing the rashness of the suggestion even as he made it. He felt sure that Gemma would want to be at home—it would be Charlotte’s first Christmas as part of their family. “Or afterwards,” he amended. “Boxing Day. We might stay a few days between Christmas and New Year’s.”
Kit looked a little mollified, then frowned again. “What if Lally and Sam have to spend their hols with their dad? He wants them to live with him all the time, you know.” He shot a glance at Kincaid through the hair that was falling into his eyes. “Now that Aunt Jules is seeing that policeman.”
“What?” Kincaid had to make an effort to concentrate on an overtaking lorry. “Juliet’s seeing a copper? She never said a word.” But now it occurred to him that his sister had seemed happier and more relaxed, and that several times he’d caught her smiling for no apparent reason when she thought no one was looking, and checking her phone for messages. But a copper?
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