No Mark Upon Her

forensics team have been over it with a fine-tooth comb. Tavie’s the expert, but I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”
    As if he knew they were talking about him, Finn gave a whuffled groan and raised his head.
    “The dogs might react if they had some sort of emotional connection to the scent”—Kieran went on, without meeting Kincaid’s eyes—“like, um, a significant event, or if they recognized a person they already knew.”
    Finn stood, yawning, then came over and settled at Kieran’s feet. “But they could just as easily be interested because that person had sausages for breakfast,” Kieran continued. “You’re fickle beasties, aren’t you?” he said to Finn, leaning over to stroke the dog’s head.
    “Okay, thanks,” Kincaid said, disappointed. “It was a long shot, anyway.”
    Kieran met his eyes then, his gaze clear and direct. “You think you know who did it.”
    “I have no evidence,” Kincaid answered.
    What he’d hoped was that if Melody and Gemma got an ID on Craig in the Jenny Hart case, the dogs might provide a strong enough link between Becca Meredith’s murder scene and Craig to justify a search warrant for Craig’s car and belongings.
    He wanted Craig for Jenny Hart, but he wanted him for Becca Meredith even more.
    “Look, Kieran,” he said, standing. “He’s still out there, and you’re still the only person who might have seen him on the river. Stay here for a while longer. And don’t go out on your own at night.”
    When Kincaid reached the door, he turned back. “Oh, and by the way, that boat you were building? The one you were worried about? We had your next-door neighbor lock it in his shed.”
    He said good-bye, without much assurance that Kieran would take his advice, but he couldn’t put everyone who’d been connected to Becca Meredith under lock and key for their own safety.
    The day was warming as he walked back into Market Place. He stopped, checking his watch. It was only ten o’clock. It would be at least another two hours before he could expect to hear from Gemma. And he had no doubt that her report would be firsthand. In spite of his cautions, she was just as much a police officer as he was, and she would want to hear the witness statement herself.
    In the meantime, he was bloody well going to find Freddie Atterton.
    H e tried the bar at the Hotel du Vin, even though it was early, just in case Freddie’s no-alcohol resolution had been short-lived, but without success.
    Then he walked across the bridge to Leander. Not that he didn’t trust DC Bell’s thoroughness, but it was possible that she and Freddie could have come and gone at cross-purposes. Still no joy, however, although he spoke to the lovely Lily in reception, then checked the dining room, the bars, and the crew quarters.
    After returning to reception and thanking Lily, an impulse led him to walk out the French doors and onto the small balcony that overlooked the river and the regatta meadows. The fields were empty now, the green sweep of grass marred only by the concrete stanchions that would support the enclosures come June.
    Kincaid had never been to Henley Royal Regatta, but he’d seen photos and videos. He imagined the crowds, the marquees, the sun sparkling on the water, and all the rowers and racing shells going out from the starting rafts, a symphony of color and motion.
    Would Becca have been among next year’s rowers, racing to prove she had what it took for the Olympics?
    He heard the creak of the door behind him and turned to see Milo Jachym.
    “Lily said you were looking for Freddie,” said Milo. “Is he all right?”
    “He walked out of his flat last night and hasn’t come back. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
    “He rang me last night but I was in the gym. He didn’t leave a message, and he didn’t answer when I tried ringing back.” Milo frowned. “He didn’t take his car?”
    “No.”
    “He won’t have gone to his parents, then.” Milo shook his head and, like Kincaid, gazed out across the meadows. “I’d never have thought he’d take it so hard, Becca’s death. Freddie always seemed like one of those blessed few who would slide through life without a hiccough. He had everything—looks, connections, talent. But the charm’s grown thinner the last few years. It’s as if he’s had to make an effort to hold everything together.”
    Studying the man beside him, Kincaid wondered if Milo Jachym had been jealous. He had the sense that nothing