No Mark upon Her

by Deborah Crombie

  As they turned along Duke Street, Kincaid asked, “What happened?”

  “The year after uni, she was the top prospect for British women’s single sculls at the next summer’s Olympics. But over the Christmas break, against strict orders from her coach, she went on a skiing holiday. She took a fall and fractured her wrist so badly it took her out of training for months. She was dropped from the squad.”

  “And her coach—”

  “Was Milo Jachym.” Doug finished his muffin and scoured the bag for crumbs.

  Kincaid thought about this as he finished his own pastry and sipped gingerly at his coffee. “So you might say her relationship with Jachym was conflicted.”

  “A bit, yes.”

  “And you might think he’d resent her trying to make a comeback when he’s got his own women’s team he’s grooming for the Olympics now.”

  “You might,” Doug agreed.

  Having reached their turning for the police station, they paused in natural accord.

  “When did she marry Atterton?” Kincaid asked.

  “The next year. The same time as she started with the Met.”

  “And the divorce?”

  “Three years ago. She filed, but there are no details, as he didn’t contest. According to the court record, he was quite generous—he not only gave her the cottage but half his assets. I’d assume he offered the settlement before he realized how badly real estate investments would be hit.”

  “Ah.” Kincaid gazed at the unassuming police station down the street, which faced a kebab house and a taxi service, and was glad not to see lurking reporters. Yet.

  He thought about Freddie Atterton. “That sounds to me like a man who felt guilty. And possibly now regrets his largesse. Is he in financial trouble?”

  “Barely keeping his head above water, according to some sources I rang in the City.”

  “Then I’d say Rebecca Meredith’s solicitor is the first order of the day, as soon as we see what progress the forensics teams have made.” They’d got the solicitor’s name and number from Freddie before they left the cottage the previous night.

  Cullen looked smug. “I rang her first thing this morning. She goes into work early. A very obliging lady. She said that unless Rebecca made a new will, everything goes to Freddie, and he’s also the executor.”

  Kincaid raised an eyebrow. As much as he missed having Gemma on an investigation, he couldn’t fault Doug Cullen for efficiency. “Convenient.”

  “Sweet, yes.” Cullen crumpled his muffin bag. “She also said she believed there were life insurance policies, and she gave me the name of Becca’s insurance broker. I’ve left a message.”

  “Small world, this town,” Kincaid said, but he was thinking that Chief Superintendent Childs would be pleased. It looked as though Freddie Atterton had had plenty of motive for killing his ex-wife.

  They found Detective Inspector Singla and two detective constables in the small room assigned for their use at Henley Police Station. Singla had set up a whiteboard for notes and a corkboard for the crime-scene photos, and a conference table had begun accumulating the inevitable piles of paper.

  Singla already looked harried, his suit more rumpled than the day before, and the constables—one female, one male—looked anxious, as if they’d been on the receiving end of Singla’s ire. The male constable was taking phone calls, and from what Kincaid overheard, it sounded as if he was fielding the press.

  “Superintendent,” Singla said, his tone slightly disapproving, as if they were late for a class. “We’ve a preliminary report from the forensics team at the boat. They’ve found a streak of pink paint on the underside of the hull. It looks like transfer from the blade of a Leander oar, but there doesn’t seem to be any damage to the oar remaining with the boat. There’s also some crazing in the hull’s fiberglass that appears to radiate from the paint streak. Possibly point of impact.”

  Kincaid glanced at Cullen. “Could she have done that herself?”

  “I can’t see how,” Cullen answered, frowning. “Although—if she tipped, and her oar came loose . . .” Walking over to the corkboard, he studied the photos, as if the body snagged below the weir might tell him something. “I suppose if the current was sweeping her away, she could have used the oar to try to capture the shell . . . The first thing rowers are taught is never to leave the boat. A rowing shell floats unless it’s really badly damaged.”

  “Any sign of the missing oar?” Kincaid asked.

  Singla ran his hand across his scalp, separating the thinning strands of his hair. “Not yet. It could be anywhere. Forensics is working on a paint match from the remaining oar.”

  “Anything else? Any evidence of a struggle along the bank?”

  “No.” Singla looked pained, as if he took the failure personally.

  Turning to Cullen, Kincaid asked, “How hard a blow would it take to shatter a fiberglass hull?”

  “These days most hulls are reinforced with Kevlar. But still, they’re fragile, and brittle, and they do get damaged often enough. I rowed into a bridge abutment once at school. It was an old training shell, but the coach was not happy.”

  Kincaid couldn’t stifle a grin. “You rowed into a bridge?”

  “You are going backwards, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Cullen said, sounding offended. “Some rowers develop a really annoying habit of constantly looking over their shoulder. Slows them down. Others just aim the boat and hope for the best.”

  “I take it you belonged to the second group.”

  Cullen ignored this quip. “If you know the course well, which Becca Meredith would have done, you learn to navigate by landmarks.”

  “What about the cottage?” Kincaid asked Singla. “Anything there?”

  “Nothing that seems out of the ordinary. The calls on her home phone seem to correlate with the ex-husband’s account. He left a message at approximately the time Milo Jachym saw her take the boat out, as well as several messages later in the evening and the following morning.”

  “He could have rung from anywhere,” Kincaid said thoughtfully. “He could have been checking to see if she’d taken the boat out. What about her mobile? Was it in the house?”

  “In her handbag.” Singla nodded towards a polyethylene bag among the papers on the table. “I had the duty constable bring her personal effects. But we don’t know her voice mail password.”

  “Maybe Mr. Atterton will be able to enlighten us. But meanwhile . . .” Kincaid pulled a chair out from the table, sat, opened the bag, and took out the phone. It was a sophisticated model, one he’d expect a senior officer to carry. But when he touched the screen, the wallpaper that appeared was a service provider’s stock picture.

  Intrigued, he checked the phone’s photo files and found nothing. “Odd. She had no pictures stored on her phone.” He tried another application. “Nor did she use her calendar.”

  Quickly, he scrolled through her e-mails and text messages, but they all seemed to be work-related, except for a text message from Freddie Atterton sent at approximately the time she’d gone out in the boat, saying, Ring me!!!! I talked to Milo. The phone also showed two voice mails, but he couldn’t retrieve them. There was no visual voice mail.

  He checked her contact list—short, which by now didn’t surprise him. Going through it would be a job for Doug, but at the moment he was pleased to see that she’d listed her own mobile number. He took out his phone and called it.

  The ringtone, like the wallpaper, was standard, a double tone.

  He was beginning to form a very curious picture of Rebecca Meredith. “She didn’t by any chance have another phone?” he asked Singla.

  “Not that we found, no.”

  Kincaid rifled through the rest of the contents in the bag. “A pen,” he said, cataloging the contents aloud. “Black, fairly expensive, rollerball. No artistic, leaky fountain pens here. A wallet, black leather. And in that we have a driving license, forty pounds in notes and some change, a debit card, a credit card, a Selfri
dge’s store card.” Going back to the license, he studied the picture. Although her face was long, Rebecca Meredith’s features were good, and in other circumstances she might have been pretty. But in this photo she stared sternly into the camera, as if someone had dared her to smile and she was determined to win the bet.

  Closing the wallet, he went on to the next thing. “Oyster card, standard issue folder. A packet of tissues.” He unzipped a small makeup kit and dumped out the contents. “Compact. Lipstick. Lip balm. Tin of aspirin. A pack of tampons.” Moving those items to one side, he shook out the polyethylene bag, then glanced at Doug. “And that’s it. No crumpled gum or sweet wrappers. No scribbled phone numbers. No pizza-chain loyalty cards. No cologne samples carried for a quick touch-up before a date.”

  “Nothing not practical or essential,” agreed Doug. “And absolutely nothing personal.”

  “Sir,” said Singla, “I really don’t see the importance of what this woman did or didn’t carry in her handbag. Surely—”

  “Think about it for a moment,” Kincaid interrupted. “Are you married, DI Singla?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Do you know what your wife keeps in her handbag?” Kincaid thought of Gemma, who now carried a tote bag the size of a small suitcase, filled with Charlotte’s favorite books and biscuits and invariably, Bob, the green stuffed elephant that Charlotte refused to leave home without. He wondered how he was going to lug all that kit around and still look remotely manly.

  Singla shook his head, looking horrified. “The kitchen sink, if she could fit it in.” He closed his eyes, thinking. “The kids’ school reports, old shopping lists, grocery receipts, sample packets of biscuits. Even tea bags, just in case a café doesn’t have the kind she likes. An umbrella, because you never know when it might rain. And always a book—she’s a great reader, my wife. She likes the sort with the book club questions in the back.”

  Nodding, Kincaid asked, “What sort of biscuits?”

  “Hob Nobs.”

  “What color is her umbrella?”

  Singla considered. He’d lost his impatient expression. “Pink with yellow polka dots. She says if it rains you should carry something cheerful to compensate.”

  “What type of tea?”

  “Chai. And she always asks for hot milk in a café. It’s embarrassing to me, but no one else seems to mind.”

  “You see?” Kincaid smiled. “I now know a good bit about your wife.” He didn’t add that he liked Singla the better for it. “I’d wager she’s intelligent, perhaps slightly plump, and of a cheerful and optimistic disposition. A woman who knows what she likes and usually gets it.”

  Singla rolled his eyes. “You can say that again. And that is a fair description. But what does my wife, or my wife’s handbag, have to do with Rebecca Meredith?”

  The young female constable, who’d been listening intently, spoke up. “It’s not your wife’s handbag that’s important, sir. It’s Rebecca Meredith’s. And I’d say it tells us that she was a woman with something to hide.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sculling is for individualists.

  —Brad Alan Lewis

  Assault on Lake Casitas

  The detective constable was tall, with a lanky, coltish grace. She had shoulder-length shiny brown hair and brown eyes, and it occurred to Kincaid that Rebecca Meredith might have had a similar look ten years ago.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Imogen, sir. DC Imogen Bell.”

  “Are you by any chance a rower?”

  “No, sir. But I’ve gone out with a few. Conceited gits, for the most part. Think just because they can move a boat, they’re God’s gift to—” She caught Singla’s eye and stopped. “Um, sorry, sir.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’m always interested in the inside scoop,” Kincaid said, and saw a flash of a smile before she schooled her face into an expression her guv’nor would approve.

  “Did you know DCI Meredith, Detective Bell?”

  “I knew who she was, sir. But not to speak to. I’d passed her in the street a few times. We— Well, I suppose I looked up to her, as a role model. She seemed as if she’d stand up for herself, you know?” She cast another wary glance at Singla, but he had taken a phone call.

  Bell’s colleague, a rather podgy young man in an unfortunately snug suit, gave a slight shake of his head and looked away, as if consigning her to her fate.

  Kincaid, however, was not concerned with DI Singla’s notions of propriety. If these officers were his potential team, he wanted to get a feel for their personalities and for the dynamic between them. “Do you know Freddie Atterton, her ex-husband?” he asked.

  “Again, not to speak to,” answered Bell. “But he has, um, a certain reputation.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “A bit of a ladies’ man, sir. And he likes to go out to the clubs and bars—you know, the nicer places, like Hotel du Vin and Loch Fyne—although I don’t think he’s really known as a heavy drinker.”

  “You’re very well informed.”

  Kincaid’s remark earned a smirk from the podgy constable. “That’s because she knows all the bartenders,” said the young man. “And she forgot to mention the strip club.”

  Imogen Bell shot him a look of dislike. “It’s a small town. And bartenders make good sources. They always know what’s going on, and they usually have a pretty good idea if people are up to something they shouldn’t be.”

  Kincaid was liking Imogen Bell better and better.

  “Henley has a strip club?” asked Cullen, sounding as if that idea was in the flying pigs category.

  “It’s on the car park.” Bell shrugged dismissively. “And it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. It’s basically a nightclub with a few girls who do lap dances. It’s where everyone in Henley goes when the pubs close.”

  “It’s also next door to the senior center,” said her colleague, “and has caused no end of upset with the town council.”

  Kincaid studied him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “It’s Bean. Laurence Bean. Sir.”

  “Bean and Bell?” He couldn’t help grinning, although he knew it wouldn’t endear him to DC Bean. “Or Bell and Bean? Sounds like a music hall act.”

  Bell smiled back. “I’m the song. He’s the dance.”

  “Sod off, Bell,” began Bean, but his repartee was interrupted by DI Singla, off the phone and looking thunderous.

  “We have an inquiry on, in case you hadn’t noticed. And at the moment it seems to be going nowhere. The house-to-house team checking Leander to Remenham has found nothing. Nor has the team I’ve had querying the narrowboats moored on the Bucks bank between Henley and Greenlands.”

  “Not an unexpected result,” Kincaid said. “But—” His phone vibrated. When a quick glance at the screen showed the caller as Rashid Kaleem, he excused himself and took the call. “Rashid? What have you got?”

  “Nothing one hundred percent definitive,” said Kaleem, in the precise Oxbridge accent that always seemed at odds with his rather rakish appearance. The accent, Kincaid thought, was a small but understandable vanity for a man who had grown up on a Bangladeshi council estate in Bethnal Green. “But,” Kaleem continued, “I don’t like it. Some of the head injuries appear to have been inflicted antemortem. She was definitely alive when she went into the drink—her lungs were filled with water. And river water, before you ask. No one drowned her in the bathtub.”

  “So, no sudden death syndrome while rowing?” Kincaid asked, with a look at Cullen.

  “No. And most athletes who die from sudden cardiac failure turn out to have an undiagnosed genetic defect. Rebecca Meredith was as fit as anyone I’ve ever seen.”

  Kincaid knew Kaleem well enough to be certain there was more. “Both the drowning and the head injuries could have been the result of an accidental capsize. What’s the catch?”

  “Scrapes of pink paint under her fingernails. Her nails were short and ve
ry well cared for, so I’d say it’s unlikely she was doing a bit of DIY and forgot to scrub up. And there was a bit of bruising on her knuckles, with what might possibly be some flakes of the same paint embedded in the skin. I take it the boat was not a lurid sort of bright peachy-pink, by the way. I’ve sent samples to the lab to see if they can match it.”

  “I think I can guess,” Kincaid said. “You’ve just given a very good description of Leander pink.”

  Kincaid clicked off and outlined Kaleem’s conclusions for the rest of the team. Turning to Cullen, he said, “Doug, you’re a rower. She had pink paint under her nails and bruising on her knuckles. Give me a scenario.”

  Cullen looked a little pale. “Well, I suppose someone could have tipped her. If her oar had come loose . . . or if someone took it out of the oarlock, it wouldn’t have been that difficult, especially if she was taken by surprise. Then, when she tried to right the boat, they could have held it down with the oar.”

  “And when she reached up,” Kincaid continued, “trying to right herself, she scrabbled at the oar. And then they—whoever this person was—bashed her knuckles with it.”

  “Why couldn’t she have just kicked her feet out of the shoes and swum out from underneath?” asked Bell.

  “If she’d taken a blow to the head, she might have been confused. And she could have breathed in water immediately, from the shock.”

  “This hypothetical person who tipped the boat,” broke in Singla. “This is all conjecture, Superintendent.”

  “Conjecture is enough to go on with at this point, Inspector.” Kincaid was grim, his levity with Bean and Bell a moment before forgotten. “I think we have a murder inquiry on our hands.”

  He rang Denis Childs and apprised him of the developments.

  There was a moment’s silence on the line, then Kincaid heard a distinct sigh. “I suppose we have no choice,” said Childs, not sounding particularly happy about it. “But I want you as SIO. I’ll go through channels with Thames Valley. And you’ll need more resources. I’ll organize some data-entry staff for you. What about the team there in Henley?”