No Mark Upon Her

the job.
    But Ross hadn’t let the disastrous race damage his prospects, and he’d made good use of his Blue. Although Oxford and Cambridge Blues were awarded in other sports, the rowing Blue was still by far the most prestigious. And if you made the Blue Boat, it didn’t matter if you won or lost, as long as you didn’t sink before the Fulham Bend.
    Freddie took another sip of his gin and studied his friend. Ross hadn’t been as tall as most of the rowers, so he had tried to make up for the deficiency in height by adding bulk. He’d been good at lifting weights, and it had given him power if not finesse.
    Now, although the shoulders under his lightweight sports coat were still broad, he looked thicker and softer around the middle. A few too many gins, Freddie thought, and raised his own. “Still working out?” he asked.
    Ross looked pleased. “Got a new gym at home. A new house, in fact, in Barnes.”
    “Barnes? That’s brilliant. Things must be going well for you.”
    “Looking up, yeah,” Ross said, leaning in for a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve got a deal in the works”—he shook his head, grinning—“knock your sodding socks off.”
    Like many Blues, regardless of the degrees they’d taken at university, Ross had gone into investment banking—with better results than Freddie had seen in commercial real estate, apparently.
    He glanced round at the other men in the bar. Like Ross, they were wearing expensive clothes, drinking expensive drinks, huddled in quiet and self-important conference. Fat cats. They were fat cats. Had he been in danger of becoming one, too? Was that the real reason Becca had left him?
    Freddie realized his mind was wandering. The gin was beginning to go to his head. He forced himself to concentrate. Ross had, after all, gone out of his way to be a mate today. “Listen, Ross. I really appreciate your doing this for me. You’re a good friend.”
    “Bollocks.” Ross gave him an awkward clap on the shoulder. “It was the least anyone could do. You let me know whatever else you need. And Chris as well—she’d have come today if it wasn’t for work and the kids.”
    “Chris, and the boys? They’re doing well?”
    Ross lowered his voice again. “Chris may have a promotion in the works. All hush-hush, but she’s made a good job of impressing the right people.”
    For an instant, Freddie heard Becca’s voice, slightly waspish, murmuring, And what does that have to do with being a good copper? He shook his head, wondering if he was going thoroughly bonkers, and tried to focus on what Ross was saying.
    “—and the boys, well, it’s not official yet, but there’s a good chance for”—he looked round, and this time spoke in a whisper deserving of a state secret—“Eton.”
    “Eton?” said Freddie, surprised at the rush of resentment he felt. “Wow. So no old school tie, then. Bedford School not good enough for the Abbott offspring?”
    “It’s not that, man, you know that.” Ross sounded hurt. “It’s just that you’ve got to do whatever is best for the kids. Help them get on in the world.”
    “Right.” Freddie forced a smile. Kids. He had wanted kids. Becca hadn’t. And now it would never matter.
    Exhaustion swept over him, and he suddenly wanted nothing but to go home and be alone.
    Ross tipped up the last of his drink, then, before Freddie could protest, signaled the barmaid and ordered another round for them both. Ross turned to him. “About today. I really am sorry, mate. Was it bad, at the mortuary? Was she—was she cut up or anything?”
    “She was fine,” said Freddie, feeling guilty over his momentary antagonism towards his friend. “There was nothing that you could see, really. She just looked—” His throat tightened and he couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Dead .
    “Have the police talked to you? Do they have any idea what happened?”
    “They’ve talked to me, all right. But nobody’s told me anything. They called in a superintendent from Major Crimes. Scotland Yard.”
    Ross gave a low whistle. “Big-time, buddy. They’re bringing in the muscle. So, have they asked you where you were?”
    T he alcohol from the night before had aggravated Kieran’s vertigo, as he’d known it would. After the search, he’d managed to avoid the rest of the team. But once on his own, he’d been unable to shut out the recurring image of Becca’s body, trapped in the roots below the weir, the strands of her hair moving like fronds in