“Tavie, I’m going to send a uniformed officer for the map and the log. I want someone guarding that spot until I can get the SOCOs there in the morning.”
Kieran pushed himself up out of the chair, although he wobbled a bit. Both the dogs jumped up as well, panting gently in anticipation of a new activity.
“Thank you,” Kieran said simply.
“I’m the one should be thanking you. Both of you.” He included Tavie with a brief smile, then turned back to Kieran. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell us yesterday, when we found the Filippi, that you had a relationship with Rebecca Meredith?”
“I—I just—I suppose all I could think was to do what she wanted. And she didn’t want anyone to know about us.”
“Why? You were both single adults.”
“I used to believe it was because she was ashamed of me.” Kieran looked down at his blood- and soot-spattered clothes. “Even at the best of times, I’m not exactly the guy you introduce at office parties or take to your family’s Christmas dinner.”
“Would her ex-husband have minded that she was seeing someone?”
Kieran considered. “I don’t think so. At least, they seemed to be friends. But she said—one time when we’d had as much of a row as you could have with Becca, because she would just shut you out—she said that she couldn’t be seen to have a—a relationship with anyone.”
From the way Kieran colored and glanced at Tavie, Kincaid suspected that those weren’t the exact words Becca had used. “Why not?” he asked.
“She said she couldn’t risk it being used as ammunition against her.”
Chapter Thirteen
Single scullers were an odd lot, even in the peculiar world of rowing. They were both revered and distrusted by other rowers—revered because sculling was a higher form of rowing art, much harder to learn than the “sweep” rowing done at colleges
.
—Daniel J. Boyne
The Red Rose Crew: A True Story of Women, Winning, and the Water
The pain seared through his legs, his arms, his shoulders, his chest. He thought he would do anything to make it stop. Die, even.
But some small part of his brain, hazy from oxygen deprivation, told him he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop, couldn’t die. Not yet.
Water, freezing dirty water from the tidal Thames, lapped over his feet, then began to spill over the sides of the boat. But it might have been treacle, for all the progress the eight was making through it.
The boat felt as though it were made of cement, every stroke of the oars seemed a ponderous effort. Someone had given out, given up, and the rest were pulling a deadweight. Who the hell was it? Anger surged through him, but his lips were too cold to give it voice.
From bow and stroke, he heard the hoarse curses of other men too exhausted to shout. Then, “Move it! Move the fucking boat, you bastards!” screamed the cox, the only one of them with enough energy left to make himself heard. “Bowside, bowside, watch your oars! We’re going to . . .”
Too late. Their oars clashed and tangled with the oars of the other boat. There was a crack, a sharp pain in his chest—the handle of his oar hitting him with crushing force—then the oar was torn from his hands.
“No!” he shouted. “No!” They’d never recover from this. He had to—
But the icy water washed over his mouth, his face. The boat was going down, and he couldn’t breathe . . .
Freddie woke, sweating, thrashing, gasping, his sheets twined round him like ropes.
“Shit. Oh, shit.” He sat up, pushing away the covers. The bloody Boat Race nightmare. He hadn’t had that one in years. But this time it had been worse. His subconscious had pieced together what had been a disastrous rough weather race with—with what must have happened to Becca. Dear God.
But the realization that he’d been dreaming brought little relief, because awake he felt just as helpless and out of control.
Until Ross had brought it up in the bar yesterday afternoon, he hadn’t realized that the police actually might believe he’d killed Becca. “They always think it’s the spouse,” Ross had said. “Or ex-spouse, in your case.”
In the shock of the first hours after Becca’s death, Freddie had just assumed their questions were routine. Now he saw that he had been an idiot, that he had no alibi for the time Becca must have drowned, no way to convince them of his innocence. He was as lost as he had been in the dream.
He lay back against the damp and pummeled pillows. Did it really matter? he wondered. Because nothing that remained to him seemed of any consequence at all.
Kincaid enjoyed the full English breakfast served at the Red Lion—with only the tiniest twinge of guilt for having deprived Doug Cullen of the same delights the previous morning. Then, as he had more than half an hour before he had to meet Doug at the train station, and as it was a gloriously crisp, bright autumnal morning, he left the hotel and walked across the road to Henley Bridge.
Leaning on the parapet, he gazed downriver, where the crew was just going out from Leander. Fours and eights pushed away from the landing raft, the crews taking a few moments to settle themselves and adjust gear or rigging. Then the oars began to dip in unison, and as they rose from the water, they cast droplets that sparkled like diamonds in the clear light.
The boats began to slip away downstream, their coaches following along the towpath on their bicycles. Kincaid recognized Milo Jachym, shouting instructions to the women’s eight.
He watched until boats and coaches disappeared from view, then left the bridge and walked thoughtfully up Thames Side towards the railway station. When he reached Station Road, he checked his watch, and finding that he still had time to spare, continued along the pedestrian path until he reached the River and Rowing Museum. He’d read a brochure about the museum that morning at breakfast, and it had given him an idea.
Inside, he bypassed the lure of the museum shop, filled with potential gifts for Gemma and the children, and resisted the temptation of The Wind in the Willows exhibition as well.
Climbing the stairs, he entered the long gallery where the Sydney Coxless Four hung from the ceiling on permanent display. In that boat, Steve Redgrave, Matthew Pinsent, Tim Foster, and James Cracknell had won a gold medal for Great Britain in the Sydney Olympics in 2000. According to the placard, it was a British boat, an Aylings, custom built for that particular crew and that particular race.
Seen from below, the long white hull seemed almost alien in its proportions, too impossibly long and slender to function. Out of its watery element, it might have been a giant’s flying sword.
A video of the race itself played in an endless loop on a large screen at the room’s end. Kincaid had seen the race at the time, of course—the victory of Team GB had dominated every news and sports program for days—but he’d paid it no more than passing attention.
Now, however, he watched the six minutes of the race intently, mesmerized by the power, the pain, and the sheer breathtaking beauty of it. When the loop started over, he turned away reluctantly, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in his ears.
What he’d wanted was to better understand who Rebecca Meredith had been, what had made her tick. And he thought, looking at the boat, watching the film, that rowing at that level must be beyond anything most ordinary people ever experienced—a seductive cycle of pain and exhilaration and inconceivable grace.
But had it meant more to Becca Meredith than anything else in her life? Had it meant so much that she’d been willing to make a deal that would have tarnished her in a way that Angus Craig had not?
“Bugger,” said Doug Cullen. He stood beside Kincaid on the lawn in front of the blackened remains of Kieran Connolly’s boatshed.
From the train station, they’d walked to the boat hire above Henley Bridge and taken a small motor launch to the island. Kincaid had been happy to turn the boat driving over to Cullen, who had piloted with finesse, easing the little launch into the landing raft with nary a bump.<
br />
Two uniformed arson investigators were moving methodically through the site, photographing, measuring, sampling, and Kincaid guessed that the launch tied up at the next-door neighbor’s larger dock belonged to them. The blue-and-white crime-scene tape that had been staked round the shed swayed slightly in the rising breeze.
The photographer came out of the shed and walked across the postage stamp of lawn to meet them.
Kincaid held up his warrant card. “Superintendent Kincaid, Sergeant Cullen. Scotland Yard.”
“Owen Morris. Oxfordshire Fire Investigation.” Morris transferred the camera to his left hand and shook theirs. “Been expecting you.” He had gray-blond hair, bristle cut, and the ruddy complexion of a fair-skinned man who spent too much time in the sun.
The smell of wet ash was strong, even in the cool air, and Kincaid thought that in yesterday’s muggy damp the odor would have been sickening.
“This guy was damned lucky,” said Morris, nodding towards the shed, where his partner, a young redhead—who just for an instant reminded Kincaid of Gemma—went on taking samples and marking positions on a chart.
Kincaid raised a brow in surprise. “It looks pretty devastating to me.”
“Messy, yeah, but the structure is still intact. Wall joists, all but one beam, even most of the roof.” Morris shook his head. “Place was full of solvents. Good thing most of them were stored in a metal cabinet.”
“Is that what started the fire?” Kincaid asked. “The solvents?”
“No. Have a look.” Morris walked to the shed and they followed. He pointed through what had been a window, now a hole surrounded by a few bits of splintered frame. “It was a petrol bomb, all right. We found pieces of the bottle and of the rag wick. And you can see the cone of the blaze from the point of impact.”
Peering into the shed, Kincaid could see nothing but soot, rubbish, and puddles of water. “I’ll take your word for it. So, if that’s the case, did it come through this window?”
“I’d say definitely. Only one tin of solvent exploded, but that might have been what gave your owner the gash on the head.”
Kincaid turned and surveyed the shore, gauging the distance. “An easy throw from a boat?”
“For someone with a good arm,” agreed Morris. “Not to be sexist, but most likely a bloke.”
Cullen walked back to the landing raft and gazed upstream and downstream. “We’ve been checking with boat hires, thinking maybe someone ‘borrowed’ a little skiff. Why not a rowing single? There’s no reason a sculler couldn’t have eased in, tossed the bottle, rowed away. Quiet, quick, nearly invisible.”
Thinking it through, Kincaid said, “We’ve made the assumption that whoever killed Becca Meredith was a rower. So that would make sense. But where did he get the boat?”
Doug shrugged. “There are three rowing clubs within easy distance for an experienced sculler. Or—” He gestured towards the single scull resting on trestles a few yards from the boatshed, streaked with soot but otherwise apparently not badly damaged. “I’d guess that was Connolly’s boat. Who knows how many other boats there are on private property up and down the river?”
“There was a boat in the shed,” offered Morris. “It looks like Connolly was repairing it. Some burn damage, but not too bad. And that one”—he pointed towards a canvas-draped shape on the far side of the little lawn—“I’d call that one a bloody miracle. Not a cinder on it.”
They walked across the grass and Doug lifted the tarp. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, staring. He pulled the tarp farther down, with the slow reverence a lover might have used in revealing a lovely, naked woman. When the boat was free, he stepped back and gave a low whistle.
It was a racing single, but it was built of wood, not carbon fiber. The shell was complete and glistened with new varnish.
It might be a smaller version of the Sydney Four suspended in the museum, Kincaid thought, but the wood gave the boat a sense of richness—it almost hummed with life. He reached out, ran a hand along the grain of the perfectly joined and sanded segments. The wood felt like satin and was warm beneath his palm.
“Mahogany, at a guess,” said Morris. “I do some woodworking, but this”—he shook his head—“this is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Certainly beyond an amateur’s talents. It’s exquisite.”
“Does anyone still row in wooden shells?” Kincaid asked.
“Some.” Doug stroked the boat, too, as if he couldn’t resist. “Connoisseurs. And a few people race in them, but probably not at championship level. But this—this you would want to own just because it’s beautiful.” He walked round the shell, studying it. “This isn’t just engineering. It’s art. This is as good a design as I’ve seen in a high-tech carbon-fiber boat—maybe better, although I’m no expert.”
He looked up, as if suddenly assailed by paranoia. “You can’t leave this boat just sitting out here. Anything could happen to it. And it could be worth a bloody fortune.”
“A fortune?” Kincaid asked. “That’s a relative term.”
“Well, a fortune to someone like me,” Doug admitted. “But a boat like this would be pricey even for a top-flight sculler. And if the design is unique”—he shrugged—“who knows?”
Would someone have killed for a boat like this? Kincaid wondered. Was it possible that the attack on Kieran was connected to this boat, and not to Becca Meredith? Or were the two things related in a way he didn’t see?
“We’ll have a word with Kieran about it, as soon as possible,” he said. “But first I need to see if forensics have made any progress at the site Kieran pinpointed. And we need to discover how the guy who did this”—he glanced at the burned shed—“got here. You’re right about the boat, though, Doug,” he added thoughtfully. “It needs to be kept safe.”
“The neighbor’s been very helpful,” said Morris. “And he’s got a little shed. Maybe he could lock it up for Mr. Connolly. I’ll have a word with him when we finish processing the scene.”
Kincaid nodded. “Good idea.” He turned to Cullen. “Doug, I’ll organize someone to check with the other rowing clubs, if you can go back to Leander. Talk to Milo Jachym and the rest of the staff. See if anyone took a single scull out last night. And ask if anyone saw Freddie Atterton in the club. You’ll fit right in,” he added with a grin. “In the meantime, I’ll be at the incident room. I put off the press this morning but I’ll have to—” Cullen’s phone rang, cutting him off.
“Sorry, guv,” said Cullen, with a shrug of apology as he pulled the phone from his jacket. He answered, identified himself, shot a glance at Kincaid as he listened. Then, thanking the caller, he hung up.
“You’re not going to like this,” he told Kincaid. “But the chief will. That was Becca Meredith’s insurance broker, ringing me back. It seems that Freddie Atterton was still the beneficiary on Becca’s life insurance policy. To the tune of five hundred thousand pounds.”
Gemma had reached the kitchen doorway before she turned back. “You’ll be all right?”
Looking up from the tiny tea set arranged on the kitchen table, Alia gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
The young Asian woman had been Charlotte’s nanny when the child lived in Fournier Street with her parents. Last night, after Kincaid had left for Henley, Gemma had been unable to get the image of Angus Craig out of her mind. She’d wanted to follow up on her idea of asking Melody to check the Project Sapphire files, so she’d rung Alia to see if she could mind Charlotte this morning.
Alia had been free and had seemed pleased to be asked. Since she’d arrived half an hour ago, she and Charlotte had been having a happy reunion over sips of milk in the teacups. Charlotte had shown no distress over the idea of Gemma’s going out. Toby was visiting a neighbor, and Kit was closeted in his room with the dogs, working, he’d said, on a project he’d been assigned over half-term break. The house, for the moment, seemed weirdly calm.
Now, studying Alia, Gemma thought that the girl looked slimmer
, her hair shinier, her skin clearer. “School going well?” she asked. Alia had set her sights on training as a solicitor, although she had little encouragement from her very traditional Bangladeshi family.
“It’s good, yeah.” With a delicate brown finger, Alia moved Charlotte’s teacup away from the edge of the table. Gemma could have sworn she was blushing. “Rashid’s been helping me study.”
“Rashid?” Gemma looked at her in surprise. Surely she didn’t mean Rashid Kaleem?
“You know, the pathologist guy,” said Alia, confirming it. “He says he knows you. He’s been helping out at the health clinic, since . . .” Her voice faded.
Alia had idolized Charlotte’s parents, Naz and Sandra, and had volunteered alongside Sandra at the East End health clinic that served neighborhood Asian women. Gemma realized that she was the one who’d told Rashid about the clinic—how like him to step in without a fuss and lend a hand. And to offer mentoring to this young woman who had lost Naz and Sandra’s support.
But Alia was young and impressionable, and one look at Rashid Kaleem was enough to make older and wiser women swoon. She hoped he wouldn’t unwittingly break the girl’s heart.
“Oh, super. That’s great,” she said, realizing that Alia was looking disappointed.
“Lia, I want lorries,” said Charlotte, coming to Gemma’s rescue. She rolled one of Toby’s toy vans across the table. “Can lorries have tea?”
Sitting on the kitchen chair beside Alia, she swung her little trainer-clad feet high above the floor. One of the hair slides Gemma had clipped so carefully in her hair that morning had come undone, and there seemed to be a streak of mud—or at least Gemma hoped it was mud—across the front of her T-shirt. So much for her visions of a girly-girl, Gemma thought . . . not that she’d have had much idea what to do with one.
“Lorries drink petrol,” Alia explained, “but maybe just this once they could have tea.” She shot Gemma a meaningful glance and mouthed, “Go.”
No Mark upon Her dk&gj-14 Page 19