No Mark Upon Her

better at rowing, however, as he twice made the Blue Boat, although neither crew won.
    “He met Rebecca Meredith at Oxford,” Cullen continued. “She distinguished herself rowing varsity for her college, St. Catherine’s, then for the university. She studied criminal justice.”
    “She kept her maiden name, then,” Kincaid said. They’d reached Maison Blanc, and as they entered the café they were buffeted by the aromas of fresh coffee and baking bread. After perusing the muffins and pastries, they ordered at the counter. Kincaid chose cappuccino and an almond croissant, his usual fare from the Maison Blanc in Holland Park Road on the mornings when he took the tube from Holland Park and hadn’t time for breakfast at home.
    Had he gravitated towards the café here because he was homesick? he wondered.
    “That’s just thoroughly wet,” he said aloud, and both Cullen and the cashier looked at him in surprise. “Don’t take any notice of me,” he told the cashier, giving her his best smile along with the correct change and an extra pound for the tip jar.
    “Have a great day,” the girl replied, beaming at him.
    “And that’s criminal,” Cullen muttered as they carried their breakfast back into the street.
    “You’re just jealous.” Kincaid grinned. “Go on, then. Where were we? Maiden name?”
    Doug took a sip of his coffee, winced. “Oh, right. That’s how she was known as a rower, so I suppose she wanted to go on that way. Although I’m not sure I’d have wanted to keep that reputation. ”
    As they turned along Duke Street, Kincaid asked, “What happened?”
    “The year after uni, she was the top prospect for British women’s single sculls at the next summer’s Olympics. But over the Christmas break, against strict orders from her coach, she went on a skiing holiday. She took a fall and fractured her wrist so badly it took her out of training for months. She was dropped from the squad.”
    “And her coach—”
    “Was Milo Jachym.” Doug finished his muffin and scoured the bag for crumbs.
    Kincaid thought about this as he finished his own pastry and sipped gingerly at his coffee. “So you might say her relationship with Jachym was conflicted.”
    “A bit, yes.”
    “And you might think he’d resent her trying to make a comeback when he’s got his own women’s team he’s grooming for the Olympics now.”
    “You might,” Doug agreed.
    Having reached their turning for the police station, they paused in natural accord.
    “When did she marry Atterton?” Kincaid asked.
    “The next year. The same time as she started with the Met.”
    “And the divorce?”
    “Three years ago. She filed, but there are no details, as he didn’t contest. According to the court record, he was quite generous—he not only gave her the cottage but half his assets. I’d assume he offered the settlement before he realized how badly real estate investments would be hit.”
    “Ah.” Kincaid gazed at the unassuming police station down the street, which faced a kebab house and a taxi service, and was glad not to see lurking reporters. Yet.
    He thought about Freddie Atterton. “That sounds to me like a man who felt guilty. And possibly now regrets his largesse. Is he in financial trouble?”
    “Barely keeping his head above water, according to some sources I rang in the City.”
    “Then I’d say Rebecca Meredith’s solicitor is the first order of the day, as soon as we see what progress the forensics teams have made.” They’d got the solicitor’s name and number from Freddie before they left the cottage the previous night.
    Cullen looked smug. “I rang her first thing this morning. She goes into work early. A very obliging lady. She said that unless Rebecca made a new will, everything goes to Freddie, and he’s also the executor.”
    Kincaid raised an eyebrow. As much as he missed having Gemma on an investigation, he couldn’t fault Doug Cullen for efficiency. “Convenient.”
    “Sweet, yes.” Cullen crumpled his muffin bag. “She also said she believed there were life insurance policies, and she gave me the name of Becca’s insurance broker. I’ve left a message.”
    “Small world, this town,” Kincaid said, but he was thinking that Chief Superintendent Childs would be pleased. It looked as though Freddie Atterton had had plenty of motive for killing his ex-wife.
    T hey found Detective Inspector Singla and two detective constables in the small room assigned for their use at Henley