No Mark Upon Her

pockets, paced. “You didn’t know him before?”
    “No. Like I said, we just got chatting over drinks.”
    “Where? Leander?”
    “God, no. The place closes down like a tomb by ten o’clock.” When Freddie didn’t go on, Kincaid stopped pacing and shot him an impatient glance. “Okay, okay,” said Freddie. “It was the strip club, if you must know. But it’s not what it sounds.” He ran a hand through his already unruly hair. “Well, there are girls, but not on a stage or anything. It’s just that it’s the only place in Henley that stays open after the pubs close, so that’s where everyone gravitates. There’s music, and a nice bar, and people having a drink sometimes get talking.”
    Kincaid remembered Imogen Bell telling him about the place, and her colleague, DC Bean, giving her a hard time. Well, at the moment, he wasn’t concerned about the city fathers’, or DC Bean’s, definition of moral turpitude. “Okay, Freddie, if you’d never met Craig, can you remember who started the conversation?”
    “I’d seen him in the club before. And at Leander, although he must have been a guest, because I don’t think he’s a member.” Freddie stopped, licking his lips. “Could I have some water?”
    Doug stood. “I’ll get it.”
    Kincaid waited until Doug had filled a glass from the tap and brought it back. When Freddie had drunk half and set the remainder on the coffee table, Kincaid said, “Go on. So you’d seen him before, although not to speak to. But that means he’d seen you as well.”
    “I suppose. But I didn’t socialize with Becca at Leander, and she certainly never went to the strip club. I don’t understand this. What does Becca have to do with Angus Craig?”
    Kincaid debated how to answer. It seemed obvious that Becca hadn’t told Freddie she’d been raped, or at least hadn’t given him particulars. But considering what Kincaid had begun to learn about Becca Meredith, he doubted she’d said anything at all.
    And, as he’d been warned off mentioning her allegations, for the moment he was going to follow suit. “I don’t know. I just think it’s odd, that’s all, you striking up an acquaintance with a retired Met officer a few days before your ex-wife’s murder. And you say he didn’t turn up for the breakfast with you on Tuesday morning. Did he contact you afterwards, offer an explanation?”
    “No,” said Freddie. “That morning, Lily said there was an accident on the Marlow Road, so I thought he might have got hung up in traffic. Then—afterwards—I never thought to—”
    Kincaid’s phone rang. He swore under his breath, but answered when he saw that the caller was DC Bell.
    “Sir.”
    He’d have recognized her voice, brisk and competent, without the caller ID.
    “You wanted me to let you know. The forensics teams are on their way. And I’ve been to Henley Rowing Club and Upper Thames Rowing Club. No boats reported missing last night, but some of the members keep them racked outside, and no one was keeping a particular watch.”
    “Oh, bloody hell,” Kincaid said. He had indeed asked her to let him know when the teams were on their way to take in Freddie’s car, and to gather Atterton’s shoes and clothes to test against the footprint and fibers found at the riverbank.
    And he’d meant to time his interview accordingly, asking the pertinent questions and leaving Freddie no time to hide or clean anything before the teams arrived. But nothing in this interview was going according to plan.
    “Sir?” Bell sounded nonplussed.
    “Not you, Bell, sorry. How long before they get here?”
    “Half an hour, maybe.”
    “Okay, thanks, Detective Bell. And good work on the clubs. I’ll get back to you.” Hanging up, Kincaid shook his head to cut off the question he could see forming on Doug’s lips, then sat down facing Freddie.
    “Mr. Atterton—Freddie—there are some officers coming to examine your car and some of your belongings.” Before Freddie could protest, Kincaid held up a hand. “This is just routine, okay? They’ll try not to inconvenience you any more than necessary.”
    “Routine? My car? My things? Why would you—what things?” Freddie started to push himself up off the sofa, but Kincaid and Doug had him effectively hemmed in.
    “Boots or walking shoes, I would think. And outdoor jackets. But before we get to that, we need to ask you some questions about last night,” Kincaid continued. “Can you tell me what you were doing