No Mark Upon Her

shit.” He sat up, pushing away the covers. The bloody Boat Race nightmare. He hadn’t had that one in years. But this time it had been worse. His subconscious had pieced together what had been a disastrous rough weather race with—with what must have happened to Becca. Dear God.
    But the realization that he’d been dreaming brought little relief, because awake he felt just as helpless and out of control.
    Until Ross had brought it up in the bar yesterday afternoon, he hadn’t realized that the police actually might believe he’d killed Becca. “They always think it’s the spouse,” Ross had said. “Or ex-spouse, in your case.”
    In the shock of the first hours after Becca’s death, Freddie had just assumed their questions were routine. Now he saw that he had been an idiot, that he had no alibi for the time Becca must have drowned, no way to convince them of his innocence. He was as lost as he had been in the dream.
    He lay back against the damp and pummeled pillows. Did it really matter? he wondered. Because nothing that remained to him seemed of any consequence at all.
    K incaid enjoyed the full English breakfast served at the Red Lion—with only the tiniest twinge of guilt for having deprived Doug Cullen of the same delights the previous morning. Then, as he had more than half an hour before he had to meet Doug at the train station, and as it was a gloriously crisp, bright autumnal morning, he left the hotel and walked across the road to Henley Bridge.
    Leaning on the parapet, he gazed downriver, where the crew was just going out from Leander. Fours and eights pushed away from the landing raft, the crews taking a few moments to settle themselves and adjust gear or rigging. Then the oars began to dip in unison, and as they rose from the water, they cast droplets that sparkled like diamonds in the clear light.
    The boats began to slip away downstream, their coaches following along the towpath on their bicycles. Kincaid recognized Milo Jachym, shouting instructions to the women’s eight.
    He watched until boats and coaches disappeared from view, then left the bridge and walked thoughtfully up Thames Side towards the railway station. When he reached Station Road, he checked his watch, and finding that he still had time to spare, continued along the pedestrian path until he reached the River and Rowing Museum. He’d read a brochure about the museum that morning at breakfast, and it had given him an idea.
    Inside, he bypassed the lure of the museum shop, filled with potential gifts for Gemma and the children, and resisted the temptation of The Wind in the Willows exhibition as well.
    Climbing the stairs, he entered the long gallery where the Sydney Coxless Four hung from the ceiling on permanent display. In that boat, Steve Redgrave, Matthew Pinsent, Tim Foster, and James Cracknell had won a gold medal for Great Britain in the Sydney Olympics in 2000. According to the placard, it was a British boat, an Aylings, custom built for that particular crew and that particular race.
    Seen from below, the long white hull seemed almost alien in its proportions, too impossibly long and slender to function. Out of its watery element, it might have been a giant’s flying sword.
    A video of the race itself played in an endless loop on a large screen at the room’s end. Kincaid had seen the race at the time, of course—the victory of Team GB had dominated every news and sports program for days—but he’d paid it no more than passing attention.
    Now, however, he watched the six minutes of the race intently, mesmerized by the power, the pain, and the sheer breathtaking beauty of it. When the loop started over, he turned away reluctantly, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in his ears.
    What he’d wanted was to better understand who Rebecca Meredith had been, what had made her tick. And he thought, looking at the boat, watching the film, that rowing at that level must be beyond anything most ordinary people ever experienced—a seductive cycle of pain and exhilaration and inconceivable grace.
    But had it meant more to Becca Meredith than anything else in her life? Had it meant so much that she’d been willing to make a deal that would have tarnished her in a way that Angus Craig had not?
    “B ugger,” said Doug Cullen. He stood beside Kincaid on the lawn in front of the blackened remains of Kieran Connolly’s boatshed.
    From the train station, they’d walked to the boat hire above Henley Bridge and taken a