No Mark Upon Her

the moment he was pleased to see that she’d listed her own mobile number. He took out his phone and called it.
    The ringtone, like the wallpaper, was standard, a double tone.
    He was beginning to form a very curious picture of Rebecca Meredith. “She didn’t by any chance have another phone?” he asked Singla.
    “Not that we found, no.”
    Kincaid rifled through the rest of the contents in the bag. “A pen,” he said, cataloging the contents aloud. “Black, fairly expensive, rollerball. No artistic, leaky fountain pens here. A wallet, black leather. And in that we have a driving license, forty pounds in notes and some change, a debit card, a credit card, a Selfridge’s store card.” Going back to the license, he studied the picture. Although her face was long, Rebecca Meredith’s features were good, and in other circumstances she might have been pretty. But in this photo she stared sternly into the camera, as if someone had dared her to smile and she was determined to win the bet.
    Closing the wallet, he went on to the next thing. “Oyster card, standard issue folder. A packet of tissues.” He unzipped a small makeup kit and dumped out the contents. “Compact. Lipstick. Lip balm. Tin of aspirin. A pack of tampons.” Moving those items to one side, he shook out the polyethylene bag, then glanced at Doug. “And that’s it. No crumpled gum or sweet wrappers. No scribbled phone numbers. No pizza-chain loyalty cards. No cologne samples carried for a quick touch-up before a date.”
    “Nothing not practical or essential,” agreed Doug. “And absolutely nothing personal.”
    “Sir,” said Singla, “I really don’t see the importance of what this woman did or didn’t carry in her handbag. Surely—”
    “Think about it for a moment,” Kincaid interrupted. “Are you married, DI Singla?”
    “Well, yes, but—”
    “Do you know what your wife keeps in her handbag?” Kincaid thought of Gemma, who now carried a tote bag the size of a small suitcase, filled with Charlotte’s favorite books and biscuits and invariably, Bob, the green stuffed elephant that Charlotte refused to leave home without. He wondered how he was going to lug all that kit around and still look remotely manly.
    Singla shook his head, looking horrified. “The kitchen sink, if she could fit it in.” He closed his eyes, thinking. “The kids’ school reports, old shopping lists, grocery receipts, sample packets of biscuits. Even tea bags, just in case a café doesn’t have the kind she likes. An umbrella, because you never know when it might rain. And always a book—she’s a great reader, my wife. She likes the sort with the book club questions in the back.”
    Nodding, Kincaid asked, “What sort of biscuits?”
    “Hob Nobs.”
    “What color is her umbrella?”
    Singla considered. He’d lost his impatient expression. “Pink with yellow polka dots. She says if it rains you should carry something cheerful to compensate.”
    “What type of tea?”
    “Chai. And she always asks for hot milk in a café. It’s embarrassing to me, but no one else seems to mind.”
    “You see?” Kincaid smiled. “I now know a good bit about your wife.” He didn’t add that he liked Singla the better for it. “I’d wager she’s intelligent, perhaps slightly plump, and of a cheerful and optimistic disposition. A woman who knows what she likes and usually gets it.”
    Singla rolled his eyes. “You can say that again. And that is a fair description. But what does my wife, or my wife’s handbag, have to do with Rebecca Meredith?”
    The young female constable, who’d been listening intently, spoke up. “It’s not your wife’s handbag that’s important, sir. It’s Rebecca Meredith’s. And I’d say it tells us that she was a woman with something to hide.”

Chapter Nine

Sculling is for individualists .
—Brad Alan Lewis
Assault on Lake Casitas

    T he detective constable was tall, with a lanky, coltish grace. She had shoulder-length shiny brown hair and brown eyes, and it occurred to Kincaid that Rebecca Meredith might have had a similar look ten years ago.
    “What’s your name?” he asked.
    “Imogen, sir. DC Imogen Bell.”
    “Are you by any chance a rower?”
    “No, sir. But I’ve gone out with a few. Conceited gits, for the most part. Think just because they can move a boat, they’re God’s gift to—” She caught Singla’s eye and stopped. “Um, sorry, sir.”
    “No, that’s all right. I’m always interested in