“Lorries drink petrol,” Alia explained, “but maybe just this once they could have tea.” She shot Gemma a meaningful glance and mouthed, “Go.”
“Right.” Gemma adjusted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder. “You have my mobile—”
“Of course I do.” Alia rolled her eyes.
“Okay.” Gemma gave in. “I’ll see you then.” With an effort, she resisted the urge to give Charlotte one last hug. She was trying to discourage clinginess, she reminded herself, not foster it. She took a deep breath, and with a jaunty wave, headed for the door before she could change her mind about going.
Once outside, though, the bright day seemed to welcome her, and she suddenly felt bracingly, exhilaratingly independent. She stretched her legs into a welcome adult pace. Turning into Lansdowne Road, she decided to make a quick detour on her way to the station.
Ten minutes later, she walked into Notting Hill Police Station, armed with two lattes from the Starbucks on Holland Park Avenue. Melody had brought her coffee often enough—it was time she returned the favor.
“Inspector!” The desk sergeant, a grizzled Scot called Jonnie who had been a fixture at Notting Hill since long before Gemma’s time, beamed at her as if she were long-lost kin. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you weren’t due back until Monday.”
“I’m not,” Gemma explained. “I’ve just dropped in for a chat with Melody.” She raised the cardboard cups in demonstration.
“How’s the new addition to the family?” he asked. “Have you got a picture?”
“More than one, actually,” Gemma answered with a smile. She set the coffees on the reception counter and took out her phone.
When she pulled up photos of Charlotte, the sergeant scrolled through them with admiring exclamations. “What a lovely wee lass,” he said, returning her phone. “I think you’ll be missing her when you come back to work.”
“Yes, but I miss this place, too. It will be good to—”
“Boss?” Melody came through the door into the lobby. “Somebody said you were here.”
“Police station ESP,” said Gemma, grinning. “I’ve never understood how that works. The psychic grapevine.” Now she felt truly at home.
“Oh, coffee. Brilliant. Ta very much.” Melody took the hot cup and led the way into the station proper. “I’ve commandeered the Sapphire office for a bit. Mike and Ginny are both testifying in court.”
As they walked through the corridor, Gemma felt the station settle round her. The faint odor of chip fat from the canteen, the rise and fall of voices punctuated by the occasional muffled laugh, the click of keyboards and the ringing of phones—all seemed as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. “What about the super?” she asked.
“Divisional meeting. He’ll be sorry to have missed you—not that you won’t see him soon enough. And be back in your own office,” Melody added, sounding pleased.
Gemma hesitated. “Um, Melody, I’m just as glad he’s out, to tell the truth.” She’d always had a good relationship with Superintendent Mark Lamb, her boss, but explaining to him exactly what she was doing would be more than ticklish.
Instantly alert, Melody gave her a searching glance and closed the door of the Project Sapphire office behind them. The small space was cluttered with computers, filing cabinets, and the personal belongings of Melody’s colleagues. Melody sat at her own desk, which was by far the tidiest of the three. “So, what’s up, boss?”
When Gemma had rung her last night, she’d explained only that she wanted to have a look through the records. Taking one of the neighboring chairs—the absent Ginny’s, she guessed, if the hearts-and-flowers mug and the potted plants on the desk were a clue—she said, “Can we search for any female officer reporting a rape by an unknown perpetrator?”
Melody frowned. “Female police officers? That’s it? Any other parameters?”
Gemma thought back. Rebecca Meredith had reported her rape to Superintendent Gaskill a year ago. Her own mercifully aborted encounter with Craig had been a little less than five years ago. But she suspected that Craig’s methods had been long and well practiced by the time he’d driven her home to Leyton that night. “Can we make it ten years?” she asked, with an inner shudder.
Melody’s eyes widened. “You want the moon, too?” She shook her head. “I’m good, but even I have limits. This may take a while.” Her level gaze met Gemma’s. “So, in the meantime, are you going to tell me exactly what we’re doing here?”
Gemma felt a sick clutch of revulsion, her pleasure in the day erased by the thought of what Angus Craig might have done to other women.
And walking into the station, avoiding her own boss, had made her realize just how risky an endeavor this might be. “Melody, look. I’ll understand if you don’t want to do this. Duncan’s already been warned off by the powers that be, and I don’t want to ask something of you that could damage your career.”
“Boss. Come on.” Melody’s hands hovered over the keyboard. “You know me better than that. Just tell me what we’re looking for. How bad can it be?”
“We’re looking for a retired deputy assistant commissioner who’s a serial rapist,” said Gemma. “And I think it could be very bad indeed.”
Chapter Fourteen
To fuel the body, each crew member consumed between 6000 and 7000 calories a day, about three times the average intake for an adult . . . Every dish would be three times larger than you’d expect to find at a “normal” dinner table. Foster brought his own special bowl to hold the mountain of pasta he ate at lunch. One oarsman ate out of a dog bowl. Others might use flowerpots.
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney Coxless Four
Having given his name to one of the women in Leander’s front office and asked to speak to Milo Jachym, Doug took advantage of the few minutes’ wait in the club’s lobby. Hands behind his back, he strolled round the room, trying not to look as if he was gawking at the photos and trophies on display. He’d stopped in front of the gift shop display cabinet, pondering whether he’d buy a French-cuffed shirt just to wear a set of pink hippo cuff links, when a female voice spoke behind him.
“I’d go with the navy baseball cap if I were you.”
Turning with a start, he saw it was Lily Meyberg, the pretty house manager.
“You don’t think the pink would work?” he asked, making a valiant effort to appear nonchalant. He nodded at the violently pink cap in the cabinet.
“I think I’d admire such a brave man,” she said, smiling. “But the color doesn’t suit you. I’d stick with the navy.” Touching his arm lightly, she added, “Mustn’t forget my mission. I’m to take you up to reception. Milo will be along in a few minutes.”
Following her up the staircase, he was torn between watching the way her bum moved in her slim navy skirt and looking at the photos of the Olympic medalists and world champions that lined the stairwell. He’d only glimpsed the photos the other night—he certainly hadn’t wanted to stop and gawp in front of Kincaid, but now he was finding the alternative option more tempting.
“We’re just setting up for lunch,” Lily said when they reached the reception area at the top of the stairs. “But the bar’s open. Can I get you something?”
“Oh, no thanks. Bit early for me.”
“And no drinking on duty, right?”
Not wanting to sound a complete plod, he shrugged and said, “Well, an occasional pint at lunch, maybe.”
Slipping his hands into his pockets, he walked to the balcony doors and looked out across the meadows that would house the Regatta enclosures come June. If he peered to the left, he could just see down into the yard where the boats were racked.
Resisting the urge to glance into the dining rooms on either side of the little foyer, he turned back to Lily, but not before he’d glimpsed the oars mounted on the walls. Olympic oars. Dear God. And Rebecca Meredith’s might one day have joined them.
“Lily, yo
u were here on Tuesday morning, right?” he asked, trying to picture the scene. “Do you remember who was first worried that Rebecca Meredith might be missing? Was it Freddie Atterton or Milo?”
When she frowned, he noticed she had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “I don’t know. Freddie was sitting by the window, there.” She pointed towards the table that directly overlooked the boatshed and the river. “He got up when he saw Milo in reception. But I had to make more coffee, and when I came back from the kitchen, they were both gone. Then Milo came in again from outside and said Freddie was searching for Becca.”
Shaking her head, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “I still can’t believe it. We’re all just gutted.”
“Were you good friends?” he asked.
Shrugging, Lily looked away and tucked a strand of her honey-brown hair behind her ear. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say anyone was good friends with Becca. But she was always”—Lily paused, then went on—“not kind, maybe, but considerate. You’d be surprised how many of the members aren’t. She never took advantage of staff, and if you were a rower, she treated you with respect. She never made a big deal of who she was.”
He saw her eyes flick over his shoulder. Instantly her posture became more erect, her manner once again managerial. She gave him a professional smile. “Here’s Milo now. I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
With regret, Doug watched her slender back as she walked into the dining room. He wondered if he might somehow manage to run into her off duty and ask her for a drink, although he knew he should resist the temptation. It was never a good idea to mix a personal relationship with a case.
Then he turned to shake Milo Jachym’s hand. “Lily said you wanted a word,” said Milo. “But let’s talk somewhere other than the members’ areas.” He led Doug along the corridor to the door marked CREW.
As Doug entered behind him, he felt a breathless little bump of anticipation. This was hallowed ground, where the greatest rowers in the country—maybe in the world—had gathered at their leisure.
Reality did not live up to expectation.
For a moment, Doug thought he might have been back at his old school dining hall. There was the same utilitarian furniture, the same smell of eggs and chips and bacon frying. And although the handful of rowers scattered at tables—consuming what Doug guessed was their second breakfast of the day—looked freshly showered, the air held the faint but pervasive scent of sweat and moldering athletic shoes.
“Tea?” asked Milo, gesturing Doug to a seat at one of the tables just inside the dining room door.
Catching sight of the industrial tea urn near the kitchen, Doug had to force enthusiasm into his reply. “Yeah, thanks. That would be great.” He wished he’d taken Lily up on the offer of a drink from the bar.
Milo returned a moment later bearing two mugs of milky fluid and a sugar bowl. “Thanks.” Gingerly, Doug sipped. The tea tasted as if it had come from the inside of a cast-iron boiler. He reached for the sugar bowl and shoveled in a coma-inducing amount.
He could feel the covert glances of the rowers, male and female. The room had gone quiet except for the sound of a race video that was playing on the telly.
Doug loosened his tie. When he’d learned he was going to Leander, he’d been glad he’d worn his best sports jacket and tie that day. It was Leander, after all.
But here, with the casually dressed crew, he felt awkward and overdressed—the odd boy out—while Milo, in his pressed chinos and a navy Leander polo that sported a little pink hippo on the breast, had it just right.
“Baked beans on toast?” offered Milo. “Chef’s special today,” he added with a twinkle. Someone in the room farted, as if on cue, followed by a suppressed snigger. Milo ignored both.
“The rower’s best friend.” Doug managed to suppress a snigger himself. “But no thanks. I had something at the station this morning, and I’m not fit enough to deserve a second breakfast.”
“You’re a rower,” said Milo, eyeing him speculatively. “The other night—you knew your way around. But not varsity, I think. Not tall enough.”
“School eight.”
“Ah. Bow or stroke?”
“Bowside.”
“What school?”
“Eton,” Doug answered with less than his usual reluctance. Here, unlike in the force, he would not be teased for having been a public school boy. He was, however, beginning to feel as if he were the one being interviewed.
Milo nodded. “Good program. Do you row now?”
“I’ve just bought a house in Putney. I thought I’d give the LRC a try.” Doug had rowed out of London Rowing Club at regattas when he was at school, but had not been back as an adult. When he’d been debating whether or not to buy the house, he’d walked down Putney Reach and gazed up at the venerable club. Leander had once been housed there, overlooking the tidal Thames, before its move to Henley, and the two clubs were still closely associated.
Not that the LRC was as exclusive as Leander, but Doug hadn’t quite geared himself up to walking in and applying for a membership. Most of the members would be more experienced rowers, and he had, as always, the hovering fear of appearing a fool.
“Bought a boat?” asked Milo.
The coach was stalling, Doug thought, perhaps to give the rowers a chance to make a graceful exit. But if he hadn’t wanted an audience, why had he picked a common room for their conversation? Surely there were other places in the club where they wouldn’t have disturbed the members or the crew.
“No. I thought I’d get my feet wet, so to speak. A club boat should suit me just fine for the moment.” He took another sip of the tea, tried not to grimace. Determined to get things back on track, he said, “Now, Mr. Jachym, if I could just—”
“Becca. Yes, of course.” Milo sighed, as if accepting the inevitable. His burly shoulders sagged a little. “Terrible business. Everyone is still in shock. And Freddie isn’t returning my calls.”
“We’ll be speaking to him later this morning. I’m afraid this is now officially a murder investigation.”
Milo’s face went still. For an instant, Doug had a glimpse of the man beneath the jovial exterior—the man who drove his rowers beyond their endurance and expected even more of them. You didn’t coach athletes of Leander’s caliber without being tough and cagey—a strategist of the first order. And Doug had the feeling Milo had been expecting the next move in the game.
The remaining rowers seemed to have read a signal in Milo’s body language, or in the change in his voice. They abandoned the remains of their meals, and one by one trickled out—not, however, without casting more curious glances in Doug’s direction.
When the room was empty, Milo nodded, his expression once again inscrutable. “So. Where do you go from here, Sergeant?”
“You’re not surprised by the idea that Becca Meredith was murdered?” asked Doug.
“I’m shocked, yes,” Milo answered. “But I think I would be even more so if you’d determined that Becca had drowned in a stupid or careless accident.”
“You trained her,” said Doug, taking his measure. “Stupidity or carelessness would have reflected badly on you.”
“That’s part of it.” Milo shrugged, giving Doug a challenging glance. “Now you seem shocked, Mr. Cullen. That’s human nature. We always think of ourselves first, and only a liar doesn’t admit to it.
“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t grieve for Becca,” he went on, his voice suddenly hard. “And for Freddie, and for what Becca might have done or might have become. Or that I wouldn’t murder whoever did this to her.”
“Perhaps not the best thing to admit to a police officer, Mr. Jachym,” suggested Doug mildly.
“Then let’s hope you catch your man before I have a chance to lay hands on him.”
Doug gazed at him consideringly. “Would you still feel that way if it were your friend who was responsible?”
“My friend?” Milo looked startled, then drew his bushy brows together as realiz
ation struck. “If by that, you mean Freddie, you can’t be serious. He would never have harmed Becca. He adored her.”
It was Doug’s turn to shrug. He wondered if Jachym’s disbelief were a bit manufactured. Surely it must have occurred to him that Freddie would be a suspect. “Human nature, as you said,” he answered. “Sometimes there’s a fine line between love and hate. No one else can be sure how they really got on.”
“I knew them,” said Milo, his jaw set in an obstinate line. “And I don’t believe it.”
Doug conceded for the moment. “Then have you any idea who might have wanted Becca Meredith dead?”
“No.” Milo shook his head. “I can’t imagine. Do you know—how did she—”
“That’s still under investigation. As is last night’s attack on one of the members of the search and rescue team that found her body.”
“What?” If Milo had not been surprised that they’d determined Becca’s death a homicide, he seemed genuinely shocked at this. “What sort of attack? On whom?”
“His name is Kieran Connolly. He and his partner were the team at the weir. Someone tried to burn down his boatshed last night—with him in it. Do you know him?”
Milo thought for a moment. “Quiet guy? Repairs boats? I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s done work for some of the crew as well as the members. Does a good job,” he added approvingly. “Is he all right?”
“I think so, yes. Were you aware that Connolly had a relationship with Becca Meredith?”
“A relationship? What do you mean by a relationship?” Milo looked disconcerted.
“What people usually mean, Mr. Jachym. They were sleeping together.”
Milo frowned, considering. “I did see them out on the river together often enough, during the summer,” he said slowly. “But they were both single scullers, and it never occurred to me that there was anything more to it. Are you certain? Did Freddie—” He stopped, and Doug saw by the sudden wariness in his eyes where the thought had taken him.
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