No Mark Upon Her

lurid sort of bright peachy-pink, by the way. I’ve sent samples to the lab to see if they can match it.”
    “I think I can guess,” Kincaid said. “You’ve just given a very good description of Leander pink.”
    K incaid clicked off and outlined Kaleem’s conclusions for the rest of the team. Turning to Cullen, he said, “Doug, you’re a rower. She had pink paint under her nails and bruising on her knuckles. Give me a scenario.”
    Cullen looked a little pale. “Well, I suppose someone could have tipped her. If her oar had come loose . . . or if someone took it out of the oarlock, it wouldn’t have been that difficult, especially if she was taken by surprise. Then, when she tried to right the boat, they could have held it down with the oar.”
    “And when she reached up,” Kincaid continued, “trying to right herself, she scrabbled at the oar. And then they—whoever this person was—bashed her knuckles with it.”
    “Why couldn’t she have just kicked her feet out of the shoes and swum out from underneath?” asked Bell.
    “If she’d taken a blow to the head, she might have been confused. And she could have breathed in water immediately, from the shock.”
    “This hypothetical person who tipped the boat,” broke in Singla. “This is all conjecture, Superintendent.”
    “Conjecture is enough to go on with at this point, Inspector.” Kincaid was grim, his levity with Bean and Bell a moment before forgotten. “I think we have a murder inquiry on our hands.”
    H e rang Denis Childs and apprised him of the developments.
    There was a moment’s silence on the line, then Kincaid heard a distinct sigh. “I suppose we have no choice,” said Childs, not sounding particularly happy about it. “But I want you as SIO. I’ll go through channels with Thames Valley. And you’ll need more resources. I’ll organize some data-entry staff for you. What about the team there in Henley?”
    “They’ll do for the moment. But sir—”
    “Have you managed to place the ex-husband at the scene?”
    “No, sir,” Kincaid said, more formally than was his wont. “I have not. And I think we should remember that for the last fourteen years, Rebecca Meredith’s life encompassed more than her ex-husband and her rowing. She was a police officer, and to have made DCI, she was clearly a good one. I’m going to pay a call on her station.”
    K incaid concentrated on the merging traffic on the M4 as he drove back into London, but he could feel Cullen’s curious glances. “Out with it,” he said when he had settled the Astra comfortably into the fast lane.
    “What’s up with the guv’nor?” asked Cullen. “You seemed a bit, um, shirty.”
    “He’s got a bee in his bonnet about Freddie Atterton. I think he’s a little premature, that’s all.”
    “Did he quote the statistics?”
    “Not yet. But I expect it will occur to him.” They all knew that the majority of murders were committed by someone closely related to the victim, and Kincaid was surprised that Childs hadn’t already pulled that out of his arsenal since he seemed so determined to put Freddie Atterton in the frame.
    “You have to admit,” Doug said thoughtfully, “that what we’ve learned this morning ups the likelihood that the perpetrator was a rower—or at least knew something about boats. And they must have known Meredith’s routine. Freddie Atterton fits both parameters.”
    “Possibly.” Knowing that Cullen was right on both counts, Kincaid wondered if he was just being stubborn in refusing to put Atterton on the top of his list. Maybe. He didn’t like being pushed. But he also knew how dangerous it was to jump to conclusions so early in a case, and he wasn’t going to let someone else’s agenda drive his investigation.
    T he CID room at West London Station fell quiet as they walked in. The duty sergeant on the front desk had phoned upstairs to announce them, and, as always in police stations, news seemed to travel instantaneously and telepathically. Kincaid had no doubt that every officer on the floor knew who they were and why they were there.
    The superintendent’s office was at the rear of the room, divided from the general hubbub by a glass partition. Kincaid tapped on the door and through the half-open blinds saw a man rise from his desk to admit them.
    Peter Gaskill shook their hands briskly. “Superintendent. Sergeant. Have a seat.” A tall man, his fine, neatly barbered brown hair had receded just enough to give