No Mark Upon Her (14 page)

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.

A
s 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.”

W
hen 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

T
he 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 from 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.”

Ross gave the barmaid his card, but after a moment she came back and said quietly, “I’m sorry, sir, but your card’s been declined.”

“Bloody bank.” Ross’s face flushed with the quick temper Freddie remembered. “Stupid buggers couldn’t put their bloody socks on straight.”

“Look, let me,” said Freddie, embarrassed for his friend. He reached for his wallet. “It’s the least I can—”

“No, no.” Ross had already pulled out another card. “No problem. It’s just that card. Their computers always seem to be going down, or something.”

The second card seemed fine, as the girl returned with the drinks and a perfunctory smile.

Ross held up his glass. “Well,
cheers
isn’t exactly appropriate, old man.”

“Salute, then,” said Freddie, and lifted his own. The first swallow of gin went down like fire, and with the smell of cucumber came memories of summer regattas and too many gins and Pimm’s drunk in canvas enclosures. He saw Becca, her face flushed with victory after a race, and Ross shaking a bottle of champagne to make it fizz. His head swam. Was he remembering Henley or Oxford?

He looked at Ross. “We had some good times, didn’t we?”

“Oh, that we did.” Ross downed half his gin and made a face. “But the no-drinks-in-training thing was a bitch.”

“You never did want to work that hard, did you?” said Freddie. He remembered Ross, always skiving off training with some complaint or other, and then, when he’d been put in Isis, the second boat, he’d been furious. But fate had smiled on him when, on the day of the Boat Race, his counterpart in the Blue Boat had come down with a nasty case of stomach flu and Ross had taken his place.

Fate had been fickle, however. Everything had gone against them on race day. The weather was foul and the crew had lost their synergy. The boat just didn’t move, and the harder they tried, the worse it got. They’d been half swamped, and had lost by humiliating lengths, collapsing in agony at the finish. And afterwards, no one had said what everyone had thought: Ross Abbott had not been up to the job.

But Ross hadn’t let the disastrous race damage his prospects, and he’d made good use of his Blue. Although Oxford and Cambridge Blues were awarded in other sports, the rowing Blue was still by far the most prestigious. And if you made the Blue Boat, it didn’t matter if you won or lost, as long as you didn’t sink before the Fulham Bend.

Freddie took another sip of his gin and studied his friend. Ross hadn’t been as tall as most of the rowers, so he had tried to make up for the deficiency in height by adding bulk. He’d been good at lifting weights, and it had given him power if not finesse.

Now, although the shoulders under his lightweight sports coat were still broad, he looked thicker and softer around the middle. A few too many gins, Freddie thought, and raised his own. “Still working out?” he asked.

Ross looked pleased. “Got a new gym at home. A new house, in fact, in Barnes.”

“Barnes? That’s brilliant. Things must be going well for you.”

“Looking up, yeah,” Ross said, leaning in for a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve got a deal in the works”—he shook his head, grinning—“knock your sodding socks off.”

Like many Blues, regardless of the degrees they’d taken at university, Ross had gone into investment banking—with better results than Freddie had seen in commercial real estate, apparently.

He glanced round at the other men in the bar. Like Ross, they were wearing expensive clothes, drinking expensive drinks, huddled in quiet and self-important conference. Fat cats. They were fat cats. Had he been in danger of becoming one, too? Was that the real reason Becca had left him?

Freddie realized his mind was wandering. The gin was beginning to go to his head. He forced himself to concentrate. Ross had, after all, gone out of his way to be a mate today. “Listen, Ross. I really appreciate your doing this for me. You’re a good friend.”

“Bollocks.” Ross gave him an awkward clap on the shoulder. “It was the least anyone could do. You let me know whatever else you need. And Chris as well—she’d have come today if it wasn’t for work and the kids.”

“Chris, and the boys? They’re doing well?”

Ross lowered his voice again. “Chris may have a promotion in the works. All hush-hush, but she’s made a good job of impressing the right people.”

For an instant, Freddie heard Becca’s voice, slightly waspish, murmuring,
And what does that have to do with being a good copper?
He shook his head, wondering if he was going thoroughly bonkers, and tried to focus on what Ross was saying.

“—and the boys, well, it’s not official yet, but there’s a good chance for”—he looked round, and this time spoke in a whisper deserving of a state secret—“Eton.”

“Eton?” said Freddie, surprised at the rush of resentment he felt. “Wow. So no old school tie, then. Bedford School not good enough for the Abbott offspring?”

“It’s not that, man, you know that.” Ross sounded hurt. “It’s just that you’ve got to do whatever is best for the kids. Help them get on in the world.”

“Right.” Freddie forced a smile. Kids. He had wanted kids. Becca hadn’t. And now it would never matter.

Exhaustion swept over him, and he suddenly wanted nothing but to go home and be alone.

Ross tipped up the last of his drink, then, before Freddie could protest, signaled the barmaid and ordered another round for them both. Ross turned to him. “About today. I really am sorry, mate. Was it bad, at the mortuary? Was she—was she cut up or anything?”

“She was fine,” said Freddie, feeling guilty over his momentary antagonism towards his friend. “There was nothing that you could see, really. She just looked—” His throat tightened and he couldn’t bring himself to say the word.
Dead
.

“Have the police talked to you? Do they have any idea what happened?”

“They’ve talked to me, all right. But nobody’s told me anything. They called in a superintendent from Major Crimes. Scotland Yard.”

Ross gave a low whistle. “Big-time, buddy. They’re bringing in the muscle. So, have they asked you where you were?”

T
he alcohol from the night before had aggravated Kieran’s vertigo, as he’d known it would. After the search, he’d managed to avoid the rest of the team. But once on his own, he’d been unable to shut out the recurring image of Becca’s body, trapped in the roots below the weir, the strands of her hair moving like fronds in the current.

So he had gone to the pub, where Tavie had found him. Afterwards, he’d stumbled home and fallen onto the camp bed in the boatshed. For a while he’d drifted in a cider-induced doze, in which he’d seen Becca’s white face again and again, gazing up at him with open, pleading eyes.

But then the nightmare shifted, and he’d suddenly realized that parts of her body were missing, blown away, and her face became the faces of the men in his unit, and their screams had filled his ears.

Then it was Tavie, Tavie shouting at him, giving him commands he couldn’t understand and couldn’t follow.

He woke, sweating, and found the reality as bad as the dream. Becca. Becca was dead. And Tavie, his best friend—his only real friend—was lost to him.

At the first hint of dawn, he’d given up on sleep and made coffee as strong as he could bear. Then, with Finn beside him, he’d taken his cup outside and watched the light grow slowly on the river. Gray water melded into gray sky, then the skeletal shapes of trees began to appear on the far bank, and at last, as the mist lifted, the still-green froth of the willows trailing in the water’s edge.

The water’s edge . . . Kieran frowned in concentration, and then it flickered again, the image that had been teasing him since they’d found the Filippi.

He had seen someone at the water’s edge. Not where they’d found the boat, but a good bit farther upstream, the other side of Temple Island. A fisherman, or so he had thought, standing there in the shadows when he’d gone for his evening run on Sunday.

And he had been there again, on Monday.

Kieran had made a habit of timing his runs so that he passed Becca rowing her evening workout, but on Monday, she’d been late, and he must have already been back on the upstream side of Henley Bridge by the time she’d gone out.

Oh, dear God. If only he’d delayed a few minutes, dawdled on his route, could he have saved her?

And the fisherman—what if the fisherman had been waiting for her? She’d have passed right by him after she rounded Temple Island and started back towards Leander, and she’d have been staying close to the Bucks bank, where the wind and the current favored the upstream stroke.

If she’d capsized there, or been tipped, or been pulled out of the shell, then the end of Benham’s Wood, where they’d found the Filippi, was probably the first place the shell would have snagged as it floated downriver. And Becca—Becca would have gone on with the current, until her body caught in the eddy below the weir.

Kieran stood, determined to examine the place where he’d seen the man as soon as it was fully light. But then everything reeled and tipped sideways, and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the soft grass at the river’s edge.

Groaning, he mumbled, “Goddamned bloody vertigo.” What kind of life was this, when without warning it could fell him like a tree?

For a long time, he watched the whirling, juddering sky grow brighter. At last he drifted into a light sleep. Finn woke him by whimpering and nudging him with his nose.

“Sorry, boy,” he croaked, his mouth dry. “Fucking useless, aren’t I?”

Experimentally, he shifted his head a fraction. So far, so good. The short sleep had helped the dizziness, as it usually did. After a bit, he was able to get up and stagger inside, and he managed to pour some food into Finn’s bowl before stretching out on the camp bed. He slept again, more soundly, and when he woke in mid-afternoon, he felt stable enough on his feet to venture into Henley.