No Mark Upon Her

“You think I might have killed Becca to advance the chances of my own team?” When Doug merely looked blandly noncommittal, Milo’s amusement turned to irritation. “That’s ludicrous. I have a couple of good possibilities for the single scull. Not topflight, but we’ll see. And if not, there will be others.”
    “Then you won’t mind telling me where you were on Monday evening,” said Doug.
    “Here, of course. I was just doing my evening lockup when I saw Becca taking out the Filippi. After we spoke, I came back to the gym to oversee the evening workout. Then I ate supper with the crew.”
    Doug didn’t see any conceivable way Milo could have spoken to Becca as she left Leander, then made his way to a hiding spot on the far side of the river by the time Becca had rowed round Temple Island and started back upstream. Of course, that was assuming Milo was telling the truth about speaking to Becca, as well as about the time he saw her leave Leander.
    But Doug doubted that Milo would lie about his movements when his schedule was so easily verifiable. And if Kieran Connolly’s story bore out, the man on the other side of the river had been lying in wait for two evenings just when Milo would have had coaching duties.
    He gave the idea up as a bad prospect for the moment and moved on to Kieran. “Last night, Mr. Jachym, do you know if any singles were taken out, or might have been missing, around eight o’clock?”
    “A single? Why?”
    “Kieran Connolly’s boatshed is on the island across from the Rowing Museum. So unless his attacker just happened to live there, too, I suspect he used a boat. And why not a racing shell?”
    “True enough,” Milo agreed. “Well, if it was a boat, it didn’t come from Leander. There are only a few singles racked in the yard, and we’ve all been keeping a close eye on things here.” The look he gave Doug was pitying. “But, Sergeant, if you’re trying to account for every single scull along this stretch of the Thames, I wish you the best of luck.”
    K incaid stood in New Street, waiting for Cullen in front of the Malthouse, a complex of upscale renovated flats in part of the old Brakspear Brewery. On the other side of the street, the Hotel du Vin occupied another of the brewery’s buildings, and Kincaid thought he could summon more enthusiasm for a nice lunch in the hotel bar than for the upcoming interview.
    The cards were certainly stacking against Freddie Atterton. Kincaid had given a brief and noncommittal report to the press gathered at Henley Police Station. Then he’d rung Chief Superintendent Childs, who had jumped on the news of Becca Meredith’s life insurance policy with all the glee of a terrier after a rat. For Childs the demonstration of such enthusiasm consisted of a slight raising of his voice, accompanied, Kincaid imagined, by a slight but corresponding rise of the brows.
    He was just as glad not to be there to see it.
    Ending the conversation on a sour note, he reluctantly assured his guv’nor that he would pull out all the stops to establish whether or not Freddie Atterton had an alibi for the time in question.
    Then, just as he rang off, DC Imogen Bell came in to tell him that the SOCOs had found a partial footprint at the spot that Kieran had indicated on the riverbank, as well as fibers caught on a twig and evidence of disturbance at the water’s edge. They were still engaged in a fingertip search of the area.
    So it looked as though Kieran Connolly had been right about the spot where Becca had been killed, and Childs would be jubilant if either footprint or fiber could be tied to Atterton.
    But while Kincaid knew his remit was to catch Becca Meredith’s killer, he felt he was being pushed in Atterton’s direction, and by an agenda that had nothing to do with the serving of justice.
    He didn’t like it.
    Maybe he was just being stubborn, he thought, like the children when they wanted their own way and refused to see reason.
    Or maybe he was sympathizing too much with a man who was grieving for a woman he’d loved, no matter how complicated the relationship. He’d accused Gemma often enough of being too ready to put herself in a suspect’s shoes—now perhaps he was guilty of the same sin.
    Fidgeting, he watched the passersby, all of whom seemed to be enjoying the sunshine and the prospect of lunch. The redbrick frontage of the hotel contrasted cheerfully with its white trim, and on the wall of a cottage across the street, late pink