No Mark Upon Her

would come to you for a handout, and you thought you’d been generous enough already—although rumor has it she deserved a generous settlement.”
    “What—who told you that?”
    “Milo Jachym, for one. And Becca’s lawyer. And Becca’s insurance broker.” Kincaid knew he was stretching it a bit, but he was going for impact.
    Freddie had lost the quick flush of a moment before. “That’s not true. I mean, yes, she deserved the settlement. Of course she did. But I never wanted anything back.”
    “Rumor also has it that you’re in deep financial shit,” said Doug, taking Kincaid’s place on the dining chair and leaning in close to Freddie. “It would only be natural to regret turning over so much to Becca. Even with the recession, the cottage in Remenham must be worth a pretty penny.”
    “But Becca appreciated what you’d done for her, didn’t she?” Kincaid ambled round to stand beside Doug, so that they boxed Freddie in. “That was only fair. And she was fair, wasn’t she? Prickly, competitive, not always easy to get on with. But fair.”
    “What? What are you talking about?” Freddie pushed against the back of the sofa, as if he’d like to disappear through it.
    “She made sure you would be taken care of if anything happened to her,” said Doug. He gave Kincaid a quick questioning glance and Kincaid nodded affirmation.
    “She not only made you the beneficiary and the executor of her estate,” Doug went on, “but she named you as the recipient of a half-a-million-pound life insurance policy.”
    In the silence that followed, Kincaid heard the sharp rasp of Freddie’s breath, then the faint sound of voices from the slightly open window that faced New Street. He watched Atterton’s face for the tick that would betray foreknowledge, for the quick involuntary shift of the eyes that signaled deceit.
    But Freddie Atterton’s face twisted and he put a shaking hand to his mouth. “Oh, no,” he whispered. “No, please tell me she didn’t.”
    “I’m afraid she did.” Kincaid felt a stirring of pity.
    “But I can’t—I don’t—” Freddie shook his head wildly, like a man drowning. “I can’t tell her to take it back.”
    And in that moment, Kincaid believed him. If Becca Meredith had ever wanted revenge on her erring ex-husband, she had it now. She had given him a gift that might be beyond bearing.
    “Well, it should certainly solve your financial difficulties,” said Doug matter-of-factly, apparently unmoved. “Unless, of course, you’re convicted of murder.”
    “No. No. I would have been okay,” protested Freddie. He twisted the tail of his shirt in his hands. “I’ve got this project, an upscale development below Remenham. And I had a new investor. That’s what I was doing at Leander on Tuesday morning. I was supposed to have breakfast with him, but he didn’t show. That’s one reason I kept ringing Becca. I wanted to ask her if he was for real.”
    “Why would she have known that?” Kincaid asked, wondering if he’d missed a beat.
    “Because he’s a cop. Or an ex-cop, I should say. His name is Angus Craig.”

Chapter Fifteen

Beneath these pages lies a world in black and white. It’s one rarely seen by the public, yet one that for two centuries has been a preparatory ground for industrialists and politicians, the makers and sometimes shakers of our fragile society. It’s here that Evelyn Waugh’s pretty Brideshead Revisited meets the frazzled Fight Club world of Chuck Palahniuk. A flamboyant world with heroes and villains all of its own and dominated by a single event: the Boat Race.
—Mark de Rond
The Last Amateurs: To Hell and Back with the Cambridge Boat Race Crew

    “A ngus Craig?” Kincaid stared at Freddie. “You’re having us on, mate, and it’s not funny.”
    “What? What did I say?” Frowning, Freddie looked from Kincaid to Doug.
    “You were meeting Angus Craig, retired Met deputy assistant commissioner, who happens to live in Hambleden. Is that what you’re telling us?”
    “Why shouldn’t I have met him?” Freddie asked, beginning to sound panicked. “We got chatting one night last week. I told him about the project. He said he was interested, that he might have some money to invest. So we agreed to meet for breakfast on Tuesday morning.”
    “Did he know who you were? That Becca was your ex-wife?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Freddie frowned, thinking back. “I never said so.”
    Kincaid shoved his hands in his