No Mark Upon Her (11 page)

“Damn him,” she said now, but her anger was becoming steadily more tinged with worry.

The house suddenly felt stuffy rather than comforting. She took one more turn round the room, then bent and switched off the fire. Tosh sat up, the ball still in her mouth, a bit of dribble hanging from her lower lip. As soon as Tavie turned in the direction of the coat hook, the dog was on her feet, dancing in anticipation and making Tavie trip.

“Okay, okay,” Tavie told her as she reached for her jacket. “You can come. We’ll go for a little walk.”

And if that little walk just happened to take them to Mill Meadows, she’d have her chat with Kieran if she had to shout at him across the Thames.

Chapter Seven

Henley is a picturesque malting town and former port that straddles the Thames about 35 miles from London . . . The modern sport of rowing was born on the mile-and-a-half stretch of Henley Reach when the first Oxford vs. Cambridge Boat Race took place in 1829, which then begot Henley Regatta in 1839, which became Henley Royal Regatta after His Royal Highness Prince Albert (later HRH the Prince Consort) patronized it in 1851.

—Rory Ross with Tim Foster

Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney Coxless Four

M
ilo had turned up just as he’d promised, and in Kincaid’s view it seemed a timely intervention. Milo moved awkwardly to clasp Freddie’s hand, but Freddie seemed too shocked to respond.

“I’m sorry, Freddie. Really sorry,” Milo said. “I still can’t believe it. If only I’d—” He caught Kincaid’s glance and stopped.

“What am I going to do?” Freddie looked up, but his gaze was unfocused. Kincaid wasn’t sure he had heard Milo at all.

Cullen had brought a tea towel to mop up the spilled whisky, and then mugs of tea, but he’d been very careful to set Freddie’s cup on the side table rather than handing it to him. The smell of the spilled whisky still lingered, but Milo didn’t comment on it.

“I’ll do anything I can to help, Freddie,” Milo went on. “You know that. So will everyone at the club. What sort of arrangements will you be making?”

“I— Oh, God, I hadn’t thought.” Freddie looked ill. “Becca hated funerals. She said once after a particularly awful one that she wanted to be cremated with as little fuss as possible. But”—he stopped and looked at Kincaid—“you’ll be needing to keep her . . .” His face twisted. “Body.”

“There will be an inquest in a few days,” Kincaid said. “You’ll have to wait to make any funeral arrangements until after the coroner’s ruling. It’s rout—”

Milo broke in. “But surely—there’s no question about what happened. Becca’s death was an accident.”

Instead of answering, Kincaid turned to Freddie. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm your ex-wife, Mr. Atterton?”

“Hurt Becca?” Freddie stared at him. “Why would anyone want to hurt her? She may have been hard to get on with sometimes, but to think someone would deliberately— That’s daft.”

Kincaid glanced round the cottage. The décor might be spare, but it was expensive, and the cottage itself must be worth a pretty penny. “Let’s look at it another way, Mr. Atterton. Who stands to gain from your wife’s death?”

Freddie Atterton appeared utterly baffled. “Gain?”

“Did she have a will?”

“When we were married, yes. I’ve no idea if she changed it.”

“And if she didn’t?”

“Then—” Freddie pushed his hair back with a shaking hand. “Then I suppose everything comes to me.”

T
avie walked down the steps from her front door into West Street. Tosh, looking most undignified for a German shepherd, bunny-hopped down the stairs beside her. The fire training tower across the street loomed in the darkness, a hulking shape, but she and Tosh had both climbed it many times in SAR training and it held no fears for either of them.

The dampness that had risen from the river at dusk had dissipated, leaving the air chilly and crisp. She could see stars overhead, and somewhere a fire was burning.

Tavie loved autumn, and as she walked down into Market Place, Tosh trotting easily at her knee, she realized how much she loved this simple thing. When they were working, she and the German shepherd were connected, but they were joined by an invisible line of tension, as if Tosh were the head of an arrow and Tavie the stabilizing end of the shaft.

But when they walked for pleasure, as they did now, swinging along side by side, there was a synchronicity between them quite unlike anything Tavie had ever experienced.

She felt herself begin to relax as she took her rhythm from the dog, and her mood began to lift.

Leaving the market square, they crossed Duke Street, and she thought perhaps they would go only as far as the river, after all. Maybe she had overreacted about Kieran, and should wait and talk to him tomorrow.

Then, up ahead, she saw a dog tethered to a potted tree outside Magoos, the bar where everyone in Henley seemed to eventually meet and mingle. A black Lab. A black Lab that turned from his vigilant watch over the bar’s doorway and began to wag happily when he saw them. Finn.

Tosh strained at her lead and Tavie checked her, the ease of a moment before shattered.

“Hello, boy. What are you doing here?” she said as she reached Finn. Kneeling, she let him give her a slobbery Labrador kiss while she rubbed his ears. What the hell was Kieran thinking, leaving him outside a bar? Tethering a trained dog outside a shop for a moment or two was one thing, but this—Finn was a valuable dog. Anyone could have walked off with him.

Anyone could have done what she was doing right now, she thought as she unlooped Kieran’s tidy knot. When she’d freed the dog, she tried to peer in the windows of the bar, but the half-shutters blocked her view.

And what the hell was Kieran doing in Magoos? she asked herself. She’d never seen him drink more than a pint, and that was when he’d been more or less coerced by the team. She’d certainly never seen him in a bar on his own.

His lead untied, Finn jerked her into motion, pulling towards the door of the bar and whining. Tavie hesitated a moment, then tightened her hold on both dogs and charged through the door. Tuesday nights were fairly quiet—no live music, no pub quiz, no DJ—but there was still a good crowd in the long, narrow bar.

Heads turned, and the noise level dropped a fraction. Mike, the bartender, looked up from the glass he was wiping. “Tavie.” His quick smile faded. “Hey, you can’t bring the dogs—” But Tavie was already shaking her head.

“I’m not staying.” She’d seen Kieran, alone at a table against the wall. Before him sat an almost empty glass and a large bottle of Strongbow cider. Finn had seen him, too, and strained at his lead, giving a little yelp of excitement.

Tavie stopped, reining in the dogs, before she reached the table. “Kieran.”

He looked up, his long face made suddenly younger by his expression of surprise. But the surprise turned quickly to dismay, then fear. As he started to rise, he bumped the table, sloshing the cider in the glass. “What— Tavie— What are you doing with Finn? Is he all—”

“Outside. Now.” Tavie turned and started back towards the door, Tosh at her knee. Finn whimpered in frustration and pulled the other way. But Tavie was strong for her size, and she had handled big dogs since her childhood in Yorkshire. Finn came with her.

The buffet of chilly air as she stepped outside did nothing to calm her. She spun to face Kieran as he stumbled out a moment later, but she didn’t release his dog. “You,” she spat at him. “You don’t deserve this dog. Leaving him in the street. What the hell were you doing, Kieran?”

“I—I was only going to be five minutes. I didn’t think it would hurt—”

“Like you didn’t think it would hurt when you lied to me about knowing that woman today?”

Her anger seemed to sober him. “Tavie, please.” He reached out, slowly, for Finn’s lead, and this time she released it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d stand me down. And I had to know. I had to know if she was all right—if I could—”

“You compromised my search.” Tavie realized that passersby were giving them a wide berth and made an effort to lower her voice. “And my chain of evidence,” she hissed at him. “Those panties— It was you the dogs were alerting on. You—you were . . .” She couldn’t go on. If it was Kieran’s scent the dogs had picked up on the victim’s underclothes, it could only be because he had touched them, and why would he have done that unless he had slept with her? Her mind skittered away from the picture. She felt sick.

Why had she imagined that he led a celibate life, living alone in his shed, working on his boats, healing, waiting for—God, had she actually thought he was waiting for
her?
And all the while, he’d been . . .

She had been a fool.

“Don’t report for call-out, Kieran,” she said, and even though she knew she’d said enough, she couldn’t stop herself from going on. “You’ve done enough damage as it is. I’ll have to think what to do about my report.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “Nothing matters. I can’t keep anyone safe.”

T
hey had ushered Freddie and Milo out of Rebecca Meredith’s cottage, leaving the constable on duty until a forensics team could go over the house in the morning.

Once back in Henley, Kincaid had dropped Cullen—who had come straight from Putney without so much as a toothbrush—at the Boots on Bell Street while he hunted for the designated hotel parking and then retrieved his overnight bag from the Astra. He’d driven by the hotel while searching for the parking area, so found his way back easily enough on foot to the rambling old inn between the river and the church.

The Red Lion Hotel stood just opposite Leander Club on the town side of the Thames. The two buildings made Kincaid think of sentinels on either side of Henley Bridge, but of the two, the redbrick, wisteria-covered hotel had claims to historical authenticity. Gazing up at it, however, Kincaid thought he preferred the Leander pink hippo to the garish red lion displayed over the hotel’s portico.

He’d been tempted to go home—it was less than an hour’s drive once the traffic had settled. But when he’d rung Gemma from the car, she’d told him that Melody was there, that they were having a girls’ night, and that she could manage perfectly well without him. “I’ve coped with three children on my own since I’ve been off work,” she’d said with a little asperity. “I think I can handle them one more night. You do what you must to get this business wrapped up.”

Gemma was right, of course. The earlier he got on with things the next morning, the sooner he could get back to London.

He’d need to get in touch with Becca Meredith’s solicitor first thing, and he wanted to have another word with Freddie Atterton, and with the staff and crew at Leander. Perhaps by that time, he’d have heard something from the forensics crews at the boat and the cottage, and from Rashid.

At the thought of the morning’s interviews, he glanced down at his bag. He had clean jeans, a wool sweater, and a pair of shoes to replace his mud-stained trainers, but this was not exactly professional attire, especially if he had to deal with the press. Doug at least had been wearing a suit.

Then he realized that he
did
have a suit—he’d got married in it on Saturday. Again.

Cullen, arriving just then with a bulging Boots carrier bag in hand, said, “What’s so funny?”

Kincaid grinned. “Nothing.” He gazed up at the hotel. “I was just thinking that the wisteria would be glorious in the spring. It must be ancient.”

Cullen looked at him quizzically. “I don’t know about that. I’m not very good with plants. But the inn dates back to the sixteenth century, and the first recorded guest of note was Charles I.”

“Not an auspicious omen,” Kincaid said. “Let’s hope we don’t end up with our heads on the block. And that the food and the beds have improved over the last five hundred or so years. I’m starving.” It was after seven, and food was beginning to seem a distant memory.

“I always wanted to stay here.” Cullen looked round with obvious delight as they entered the building.

There was a small, cozy bar on the right, and on the left a more formal restaurant, with starched white tablecloths and linen. Ahead, tasteful antique furniture and wood floors gleamed in the lamplit reception area. Near the desk stood an imposingly hooded cane chair, and Kincaid immediately thought it would make a perfect hiding nook for a child.

“I used to beg my parents to come and stay here whenever I had a race in Henley when I was at school,” Cullen continued, “but they never did.”

Kincaid looked at his partner in surprise. “They never came to watch you row?”

“Not that I can remember,” answered Doug, but his tone was a bit too casual, and Kincaid suspected he’d trodden on sensitive territory. “My dad was busy, and I was never likely to win,” Doug added, shrugging. “And what I really wanted was to be allowed to have a drink in the bar, and pigs were more likely to fly.”

“Well, the drink in the bar can be remedied, at least,” Kincaid said, dropping his voice as the young woman at the desk looked up and smiled at them in welcome. “I’m not sure we can do anything about the flying pigs.”

W
hen they had settled into their respective rooms—Kincaid’s with a four-poster that he would certainly have preferred to share with Gemma—they eschewed the formal dining room and met in the aptly named Snug Bar for drinks and dinner. This, tucked behind the small bar they had seen by the entrance, had dark wood-paneled walls and dark leather furniture, relieved by softly lit bookcases and oil portraits of bewigged men. A fire burned cheerily in the grate.

“An Englishman’s dream,” Kincaid murmured as they chose a low table near the fire. He realized that the dining room at Leander, with its cane-backed furniture, had given him the same teasing impression as this place. There was a hint of the colonial, the cane furniture a reminder of the last vestiges of empire. And there was a very definite sense that generations of entitlement had stamped their imprint on this rich market town on the Thames. The atmosphere would raise his liberal father’s hackles.

But Kincaid was not about to turn up his nose at the steak and mushroom pie, an Englishman’s dream of a dinner, nor at the bottle of Benvulin single malt that he’d spied behind the bar.

When they’d ordered and brought back their drinks, he raised his glass to Doug. “Cheers, mate. To long-delayed pleasures. And to the trials and tribulations of homeownership.”

Looking pleased, Cullen raised his glass, sipped, and promptly turned pink. “Nice whisky,” he said, wiping at his watering eyes. “Bit stout.”

“Sip,” Kincaid suggested. “But first add the tiniest bit of water. Remember your whisky-tasting lessons.”

He took another sip himself, closing his eyes and savoring the heathery-honey-buttery layers of the scotch. Was the trip to Scotland that had introduced him to Benvulin really the last time he and Gemma had been away together without the children? And on that trip they’d been involved in a very distressing case, not on holiday.