No Mark Upon Her

right?”
    Not wanting to sound a complete plod, he shrugged and said, “Well, an occasional pint at lunch, maybe.”
    Slipping his hands into his pockets, he walked to the balcony doors and looked out across the meadows that would house the Regatta enclosures come June. If he peered to the left, he could just see down into the yard where the boats were racked.
    Resisting the urge to glance into the dining rooms on either side of the little foyer, he turned back to Lily, but not before he’d glimpsed the oars mounted on the walls. Olympic oars. Dear God. And Rebecca Meredith’s might one day have joined them.
    “Lily, you were here on Tuesday morning, right?” he asked, trying to picture the scene. “Do you remember who was first worried that Rebecca Meredith might be missing? Was it Freddie Atterton or Milo?”
    When she frowned, he noticed she had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “I don’t know. Freddie was sitting by the window, there.” She pointed towards the table that directly overlooked the boatshed and the river. “He got up when he saw Milo in reception. But I had to make more coffee, and when I came back from the kitchen, they were both gone. Then Milo came in again from outside and said Freddie was searching for Becca.”
    Shaking her head, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “I still can’t believe it. We’re all just gutted.”
    “Were you good friends?” he asked.
    Shrugging, Lily looked away and tucked a strand of her honey-brown hair behind her ear. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say anyone was good friends with Becca. But she was always”—Lily paused, then went on—“not kind, maybe, but considerate. You’d be surprised how many of the members aren’t. She never took advantage of staff, and if you were a rower, she treated you with respect. She never made a big deal of who she was.”
    He saw her eyes flick over his shoulder. Instantly her posture became more erect, her manner once again managerial. She gave him a professional smile. “Here’s Milo now. I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
    With regret, Doug watched her slender back as she walked into the dining room. He wondered if he might somehow manage to run into her off duty and ask her for a drink, although he knew he should resist the temptation. It was never a good idea to mix a personal relationship with a case.
    Then he turned to shake Milo Jachym’s hand. “Lily said you wanted a word,” said Milo. “But let’s talk somewhere other than the members’ areas.” He led Doug along the corridor to the door marked CREW .
    As Doug entered behind him, he felt a breathless little bump of anticipation. This was hallowed ground, where the greatest rowers in the country—maybe in the world—had gathered at their leisure.
    Reality did not live up to expectation.
    For a moment, Doug thought he might have been back at his old school dining hall. There was the same utilitarian furniture, the same smell of eggs and chips and bacon frying. And although the handful of rowers scattered at tables—consuming what Doug guessed was their second breakfast of the day—looked freshly showered, the air held the faint but pervasive scent of sweat and moldering athletic shoes.
    “Tea?” asked Milo, gesturing Doug to a seat at one of the tables just inside the dining room door.
    Catching sight of the industrial tea urn near the kitchen, Doug had to force enthusiasm into his reply. “Yeah, thanks. That would be great.” He wished he’d taken Lily up on the offer of a drink from the bar.
    Milo returned a moment later bearing two mugs of milky fluid and a sugar bowl. “Thanks.” Gingerly, Doug sipped. The tea tasted as if it had come from the inside of a cast-iron boiler. He reached for the sugar bowl and shoveled in a coma-inducing amount.
    He could feel the covert glances of the rowers, male and female. The room had gone quiet except for the sound of a race video that was playing on the telly.
    Doug loosened his tie. When he’d learned he was going to Leander, he’d been glad he’d worn his best sports jacket and tie that day. It was Leander , after all.
    But here, with the casually dressed crew, he felt awkward and overdressed—the odd boy out—while Milo, in his pressed chinos and a navy Leander polo that sported a little pink hippo on the breast, had it just right.
    “Baked beans on toast?” offered Milo. “Chef’s special today,” he added with a twinkle. Someone in the room farted, as if on cue, followed