No Mark Upon Her

she could have sworn it had called her name.

Chapter Two

In the single shell I found my instrument . . .
—Sara Hall
Drawn to the Rhythm

    F reddie Atterton swiped his member’s tag over the scanner at the entrance to the Leander car park, then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for the gate bar to rise. The Audi’s wipers swished, all but useless at moving the sheets of water streaming across the windscreen. Peering forward as the bar lifted, he eased out the clutch and felt the gravel shift under the car’s tires as he inched forward.
    “Sodding rain,” he muttered as he pulled into the nearest available space. The car park was fast turning into a bog. He’d be lucky if he could get the car out again. Nor was there any way he was getting from the car to the clubhouse without ruining his hand-stitched Italian leather shoes, or keeping his jacket from getting soaked before he could get his umbrella up.
    Killing the engine, he glanced at his watch—five minutes to eight. There wasn’t time to wait it out. He didn’t want to dash dripping into the club and find his prospective investor there before him. This breakfast meeting was too important to start it off looking like a drowned—and harried—rat.
    And he’d meant to be better informed. Damn Becca for not ringing him back last night. He’d tried her again this morning, but she still hadn’t picked up on either phone.
    With more than a decade as an officer in the Metropolitan Police, Becca knew almost everyone who was anyone in the force. Freddie had thought she might be able to give him some tips on his prospect, who was a recently retired Met officer. Not that one expected run-of-the-mill Metropolitan Police officers to be flush enough to sink money into what Freddie admitted was a still slightly sketchy property deal.
    But this bloke, Angus Craig, had been a deputy assistant commissioner, and he lived in a nearby village that was definitely on the poncey end of the spectrum. Freddie had run into him over drinks at a local club the previous week, and when they’d got chatting, Craig had said he liked the idea of putting his money into something he could keep an eye on. Freddie had hoped that Becca could tell him whether or not Craig was a serious player.
    And God help Freddie if not. He’d bought the run-down farm and outbuildings on the Thames below Remenham, intending to turn the place into upmarket flats— tasteful country living with city luxury and a river view . But then the market had dived, and now he was overextended and couldn’t get the damned thing off the ground.
    He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and checked it once more, just in case he’d missed a call, but there was no message light. His irritation inched over into vague worry. Stubborn Becca might be, but they’d managed to keep up an odd sort of friendship after the divorce, and if nothing else, he’d expected her to ring him to tell him to mind his own business.
    Maybe he had been out of line, telling her off about the rowing. But he couldn’t believe she really meant to put her career as a detective chief inspector in jeopardy for a pipe dream of an Olympic gold medal that any sane person would have given up years ago. He’d felt the siren call of rowing, too, and God knew he’d been competitive, but at some point you realized you had to let it go and get on with real life. As he had.
    With a sudden and uncomfortable twinge, he wondered if he’d have let it go so easily if he’d been as good as she was. And just how successful had he been at real life? He pushed that nagging little thought aside. Things would get better; they always did.
    Perhaps he should rethink what he’d said to Becca. But first, Mr. Craig.
    A ngus Craig, however, failed to materialize.
    Freddie had leapt from the Audi, popping open his umbrella with the speed of a conjurer, then squelched across the car park to the haven of Leander’s lobby. Lily, the duty manager, had brought him a towel from the crew quarters, then seated him at his favorite table in the window of the first-floor dining room.
    “The crew won’t be going out this morning,” he said, looking out at the curtains of rain sweeping across the river. This was rough weather, even for Leander’s crew, who prided themselves on their fortitude—although anyone who had rowed in an Oxford or Cambridge Blue Boat could tell them a thing or two about weather . . . and fortitude.
    Freddie’s boat had