No Mark upon Her

by Deborah Crombie

  “They’ll do for the moment. But sir—”

  “Have you managed to place the ex-husband at the scene?”

  “No, sir,” Kincaid said, more formally than was his wont. “I have not. And I think we should remember that for the last fourteen years, Rebecca Meredith’s life encompassed more than her ex-husband and her rowing. She was a police officer, and to have made DCI, she was clearly a good one. I’m going to pay a call on her station.”

  Kincaid concentrated on the merging traffic on the M4 as he drove back into London, but he could feel Cullen’s curious glances. “Out with it,” he said when he had settled the Astra comfortably into the fast lane.

  “What’s up with the guv’nor?” asked Cullen. “You seemed a bit, um, shirty.”

  “He’s got a bee in his bonnet about Freddie Atterton. I think he’s a little premature, that’s all.”

  “Did he quote the statistics?”

  “Not yet. But I expect it will occur to him.” They all knew that the majority of murders were committed by someone closely related to the victim, and Kincaid was surprised that Childs hadn’t already pulled that out of his arsenal since he seemed so determined to put Freddie Atterton in the frame.

  “You have to admit,” Doug said thoughtfully, “that what we’ve learned this morning ups the likelihood that the perpetrator was a rower—or at least knew something about boats. And they must have known Meredith’s routine. Freddie Atterton fits both parameters.”

  “Possibly.” Knowing that Cullen was right on both counts, Kincaid wondered if he was just being stubborn in refusing to put Atterton on the top of his list. Maybe. He didn’t like being pushed. But he also knew how dangerous it was to jump to conclusions so early in a case, and he wasn’t going to let someone else’s agenda drive his investigation.

  The CID room at West London Station fell quiet as they walked in. The duty sergeant on the front desk had phoned upstairs to announce them, and, as always in police stations, news seemed to travel instantaneously and telepathically. Kincaid had no doubt that every officer on the floor knew who they were and why they were there.

  The superintendent’s office was at the rear of the room, divided from the general hubbub by a glass partition. Kincaid tapped on the door and through the half-open blinds saw a man rise from his desk to admit them.

  Peter Gaskill shook their hands briskly. “Superintendent. Sergeant. Have a seat.” A tall man, his fine, neatly barbered brown hair had receded just enough to give him a patrician look. He wore an expensively cut navy blazer that Kincaid thought would have made him look right at home at Leander.

  “A bad business,” Gaskill said, returning to his leather executive chair. He seemed even taller sitting down, and Kincaid wondered if he pumped the chair up to its full height for the intimidation factor. “To lose an officer under any circumstances, but murder . . .” He shook his head. “This is dreadful. Are you certain?”

  “Chief Superintendent Childs rang you, then?” Kincaid asked, not feeling it necessary to restate what he knew Childs had already told the man.

  “Yes, right away. He has every confidence in you, Superintendent.”

  Kincaid’s hackles rose. First, Peter Gaskill had distanced himself by not using their names, and now he sounded downright patronizing. Who was he to think Kincaid needed a pat on the back?

  He ignored the comment and smiled, refusing to give Gaskill the satisfaction of seeing he’d nettled him. “I appreciate that, Superintendent.” Gaskill could bloody well hold his breath waiting for the honorific—they were of the same rank. “And I’d appreciate anything you could tell us about DCI Meredith.”

  “DCI Meredith was an exemplary officer. Well respected here in the division.”

  “But was she liked?”

  “Liked?” For the first time, Gaskill looked nonplussed. “Is that really relevant, Superintendent? Senior police officers are not in the business of being liked.”

  It was Kincaid’s turn to be patronizing. “It’s relevant in any murder inquiry, as I’m sure you’re aware. I want to know how Rebecca Meredith got on with her colleagues. Were there any interdepartmental feuds or rivalries?”

  Gaskill was staring at him now. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that Meredith’s death had anything to do with her work here in the division.”

  “I don’t know.” Kincaid shrugged. “I don’t know anything at this point except that it appears that someone turned over Rebecca Meredith’s rowing shell and held her under until she drowned.”

  The only sound in the office was the sharp intake of Gaskill’s breath. With his back to the glass partition, Kincaid could only sense the attention of the occupants of the CID room, but he felt as if someone were boring a hole between his shoulder blades.

  Cullen pushed his glasses up on his nose, and Gaskill looked away from Kincaid’s gaze, breaking the tension of the moment. “That’s terrible, Superintendent,” he said. “Truly terrible. If you’re right, this person must be brought to justice.”

  There it was again, Kincaid thought. The properly expressed sentiments, but beneath that, the undertone of contempt. If you’re right, Gaskill had said.

  “Was she working on anything that might have caused someone to harm her?” Cullen asked. Grudge killings of police officers were not unheard of, and it was a possibility they must consider.

  “A string of teenage knifings on an estate,” Gaskill answered, dismissive. “These kids wouldn’t know where Henley was, much less how to get there, or how to turn over a rowing boat.”

  Cullen wasn’t so easily fobbed off. “What about her rowing? I understand she’d begun leaving work very early since the clocks went back. Was this causing any difficulties with her performance?”

  “Becca assured me that she would continue to manage her caseload.”

  Seeing Cullen’s quick glance, Kincaid knew his partner had caught it, too. Gaskill had slipped and called Becca by her familiar name.

  “And her colleagues here in the unit?” Kincaid asked. “Were they okay with this, too?”

  “You’d have to ask them, Superintendent. I assumed she had come to an understanding with them.”

  “Had she, now?” Kincaid settled a little more comfortably in his chair and straightened his trouser crease before he continued. “Did you know that DCI Meredith was considering training full-time for the Olympics?”

  He saw the flash of hesitation on Gaskill’s face. It was brief, and quickly mastered, but it had been there. The man had been deciding whether or not to lie. Why?

  Gaskill touched the already perfectly aligned stack of papers on his desk. “She’d talked to me about it, yes, but I didn’t think she’d come to a definite decision. She would have had the full support of the force, of course, although we’d have hated to lose her.” Seeming to realize he’d made an unfortunate choice of words, Gaskill added, “I mean temporarily, of course.”

  He cleared his throat, a deliberate end-of-the-interview signal. “Now, if you don’t mind, Superintendent, I’ve a luncheon appointment. As for DCI Meredith’s team, Sergeant Patterson is out on an interview, but DC Bisik is waiting to speak to you.”

  Kincaid decided to accept the dismissal gracefully. He wanted to know more before he pushed Superintendent Gaskill further. He stood and reached for Gaskill’s hand, giving him no choice but to shake again. “Thanks for your time.”

  Gaskill stood. “You will keep me posted?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll find DC Bisik at the desk on your right,” Gaskill said, nodding, then focused his attention on his papers again. Kincaid would have wagered he knew the first page by heart.

  As they stepped into the CID room and the door swung to behind them, Cullen whispered, “Wanker.”

  “In spades,” Kincaid murmured back, turning to look for Becca’s constable. But a young man had risen from a desk to their right and was already coming towards them.

  “I’m Bryan.” He reached out to shake their hands. “DC Bisik. Is
she—we’ve heard—is the guv’nor really dead?” He was stocky, with buzz-cut dark hair that set off his pale face, and his apparent distress seemed in marked contrast to his superior’s cool demeanor.

  “I’m sorry, yes,” Kincaid said.

  “Oh, Christ. I can’t believe it. She was just . . .” Bisik swallowed, then motioned them towards the relative quiet of the corridor. “What happened?” he asked when they had followed him out. “Can you say? The rumor mill is going full tilt here.”

  “She was reported missing after she went out rowing on Monday evening and didn’t return. Her body was recovered yesterday. We’re treating her death as a full-scale inquiry.”

  “Oh, right. Okay.” Bisik seemed at a loss. “I can’t believe someone would—I mean, she wasn’t the easiest boss, but you could count on her to be straight with you.” The flick of his eyes towards the inner office said as plainly as words, unlike some.

  “Was everything okay at work?” Kincaid asked.

  Bisik hesitated. “Well, there was a bit of feeling, you know, with her leaving early for her training. She was always on at us about our time clocks, and we—Kelly and me—thought Becca was being a right—” His eyes widened. “God, I can’t believe I said that. I never thought—I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s all right.” Kincaid came to his rescue. “It’s the shock. You know as well as we do that the dead don’t suddenly become saints. And I can’t say I blame you for feeling a bit pissed off.” When he saw Bisik visibly relax, he went on. “What about DCI Meredith’s personal life? Do you know if she was having any problems?”

  “No way, man.” Bisik shook his head. “I knew she was divorced a year or two back, but it was more than my life was worth to tread on that territory.”

  “She wasn’t the chatty type, then?”

  “Sphinx doesn’t begin to describe it.” Bisik looked suddenly appalled. “She—I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

  Kincaid clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly natural.” He fished in his pocket. “Here’s my card, if you want to talk, or if you think of anything that might be helpful. And I’m sorry for your loss.” He started to walk away, then casually swung back. “DCI Meredith—did she get on with her guv’nor?” He nodded towards the inner office.

  Bisik’s face went blank. “Not my business to say. Sir.” For a large man, he slipped back into the CID room with surprising speed.

  As they came out into Shepherd’s Bush Road, Kincaid noticed a woman standing by the railings on the opposite side of the street. She was smoking with rapid little puffs, and she held the cigarette cupped in her hand in a distinctly masculine gesture. When she saw them, she dropped the fag end, grinding it under the ball of her high-heeled shoe, and checked the oncoming traffic before starting towards them.

  She was blond and thin, but not in the toned way of an athlete like Becca Meredith. The skirt of her gray suit pulled across her stomach, and the jacket hung badly on her narrow shoulders.

  As she drew closer, Kincaid saw that her short blond hair was dark at the roots, and that she was a good bit older than she’d appeared from a distance.

  “You’re the blokes from the Yard,” she said, and he thought her accent held a trace of Essex. “I’m Patterson. Kelly Patterson, Becca’s sergeant.” Her light blue eyes were red-rimmed, her nose pink, as if she’d been crying.

  “Kincaid,” he agreed, nodding. “And this is Sergeant Cullen.”

  “Bryan says it’s official, then, about Becca. A murder inquiry.”

  “News travels fast.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “Bry’s a wizard with a text. We call him magic fingers. She—” Patterson’s lips tightened for a moment, then she went on. “It drove Becca crazy. And she said I was worse. She threatened to bin both our phones.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “No. Although I’d not have put it past her, if she was annoyed enough. Look.” Patterson fixed him with a pale blue stare, then glanced at Cullen as if to make certain he was paying attention. “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead and all that crap, but I’m going to say it anyway. Becca could be a right bitch.

  “But she was an honest bitch, and if she said something, or told you to do something, there was usually a good reason for it. Look,” she said again, glancing at the door of the station and then up towards the windows before she continued. “If anyone asks, I never talked to you. I’ve a four-year-old and a six-year-old at home, and I don’t need to be sticking my nose in. But Becca deserved better than this. And if His Highness upstairs didn’t tell you about Angus Craig, he’s bloody well lying.”

  When Kincaid had tried to get more out of Kelly Patterson, she’d shaken her head, and like her partner, had quickly put a closed door between them.

  “Angus Craig?” said Doug when they’d reached the Astra. “Would that be Deputy Assistant Commissioner Angus Craig?”

  Kincaid started the car but let it idle for a moment while he thought. “Retired, as of a few months ago, if I remember correctly.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not personally, really, although I’ve met him. He’s given talks at some training courses I’ve been on, and I’ve spoken to him at a couple of leaving parties. He’s one of those hail-fellow-well-met types. A bit too jolly. Edging on pompous.” Frowning, Kincaid checked his mirrors and eased into traffic. “But I’ve no idea what the hell he has to do with Rebecca Meredith.”

  Cullen already had his phone out and was tapping in queries. By the time Kincaid had looped round into Holland Park Road, Cullen’s hand froze on the phone.

  “Bugger.” He looked over at Kincaid, his eyes wide. “Angus Craig lives in Hambleden.”

  Chapter Ten

  Each year a Boat Race crew, and perhaps even the whole initial squad as well, would develop its own distinctive style and character, different from year to year, sometimes as a group, sometimes dominated by the presence of one or two strong personalities . . .

  —Daniel Topolski

  Boat Race: The Oxford Revival

  The face above the carefully arranged white sheet on the mortuary trolley looked nothing like Becca.

  Oh, it had her features, all right—the straight nose with the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge from days spent rowing in the sun, the dark, level brows, the tiny pinprick of a mole near her right ear, the slightly square chin.

  But Freddie had never seen Becca’s face still or composed. She was always in motion—even in sleep, her brow had been creased, as if she were working out a knotty problem, or replaying a training session, and her lips and eyelids had moved in sequence with her dreams.

  Someone had taken the trouble to comb her hair, and it fell back in gentle waves that she’d never have tolerated in life. Freddie clenched his hand, resisting the impulse to smooth it, or to touch the fan of the dark eyelashes that, under the harsh overhead lighting, cast a shadow on her cheeks.

  He nodded to the mortuary attendant. “That’s her. That’s Becca.”

  “That would be Rebecca Meredith, sir?” the young man said, and Freddie found himself inordinately distracted by the ring in the man’s nose.

  He looked away. “Yes. Yes, that’s her.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” The condolence was rote. “If you could just sign here?” The attendant handed Freddie a clipboard with all the ceremony of a delivery boy requesting a signature for a parcel.

  And that was that.

  Freddie walked out into the fresh air of the hospital car park, which felt warm by comparison, to find Ross Abbott waiting. Ross had left the engine idling in his late-model white BMW, a shout-out to the world that he didn’t need to worry about the price of petrol. It would have annoyed Becca no end, but Freddie didn’t care about his friend’s affectations at the moment. He collapsed gratefully into the soft leather seat.

  “You all right, man?” said Ross.

  Freddie managed another nod. Ross had picked him up fr
om his flat in the Malthouse at lunchtime and driven him to the hospital in Reading. Freddie had asked him to wait outside—he hadn’t wanted a witness if he broke down—but in the end he had felt strangely detached, as if the experience were happening to someone else.

  “Where do you want to go now?” Ross asked, jerking him back to the present.

  “For a drink.”

  “Henley? Magoos?”

  “No, it’s too early for Magoos. They don’t open until four and it’s only half past two.” Nor could Freddie bear the thought of the boisterous atmosphere of the bar on Hart Street. He knew too many of the people who were likely to wander in after work, and the last thing he wanted at the moment was questions or condolences.

  “Hotel du Vin?” suggested Ross. “Not far for you to walk home then,” he added, with what Freddie knew was an attempt at humor.

  “Yeah, okay.” The hotel was across the road from Freddie’s flat, and was, like the Malthouse, part of the old Brakspear Brewery complex. The hotel’s bar was usually quiet, and while locals would filter in later in the evening, in mid-afternoon any custom was likely to be business travelers.

  On the drive back to Henley, Ross regaled him with a detailed description of the car’s features. It might have been a bit insensitive, but it meant Freddie didn’t have to speak, and for that he was grateful.

  The hotel’s bar was as quiet as Freddie had hoped. A few men wearing polo shirts and sports jackets sat on the leather sofas, conferring over papers, but they didn’t look up at the new arrivals. The girl serving was new, which was a blessing. She took their orders with only cursory interest.

  “A Hendrick’s,” said Ross, giving her the smile Freddie remembered him trying on every girl in Oxford. “Double. On ice. With a slice of cucumber.”

  For a moment, Freddie was tempted to remind Ross that he had to drive, then realized there’d been a time when he’d not have thought twice about driving on a double gin. And it wasn’t his business. He shrugged. “Make that two.”