No Mark Upon Her

would fall just as neatly into place.
    Looking round the cozy room, with its hand-painted furniture and crewel-worked rugs, the windows curtained in cheery red and white, the mantel and picture rail adorned with carefully placed treasures, she thought of the woman whose house she had searched that day. A woman who, like her, had dealt with trauma on a daily basis. But Rebecca Meredith seemed to have felt no need to insulate herself from the stress of her job by making her home a place of solace.
    Rebecca Meredith must have found that solace—if she had found it at all—on the river. Or through something else, Tavie thought. Not food, not alcohol, if she’d been a serious rower. Sex, then?
    But that thought made Tavie’s face feel hot. The one thing she’d left out of her report was the dogs’ response to the panties she’d chosen as a scent article. And Kieran hadn’t given her a chance to talk to him about it.
    It had been fully dark by the time they’d returned to their cars after looking at Rebecca Meredith’s boat. While Tavie had been speaking to the Scotland Yard detective, Kieran had cadged a ride with Scott and disappeared, leaving Tavie to ask Sarah for a lift back to her own car below Remenham. When she got there, Kieran’s old Land Rover had been gone, and he hadn’t appeared for the team debriefing in the Leander Club car park.
    Although Tavie hadn’t wanted to field questions from curious club members or from the ex-husband, if he was still around, she’d drawn the meeting out, hoping that Kieran might turn up. While the other team members laughed and chatted, stowed gear, and played with the dogs, she’d waited, until at last she stood alone in the car park, feeling idiotic.
    She’d rung him then, and again when she got home. After the third try, she stopped leaving messages.
    “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