some help. Anyway, Atterton went to Bedford School, where he began to show a talent for rowing, then Oriel College, Oxford, where he took an undistinguished degree in biology. He seems to have done better at rowing, however, as he twice made the Blue Boat, although neither crew won.
“He met Rebecca Meredith at Oxford,” Cullen continued. “She distinguished herself rowing varsity for her college, St. Catherine’s, then for the university. She studied criminal justice.”
“She kept her maiden name, then,” Kincaid said. They’d reached Maison Blanc, and as they entered the cafe they were buffeted by the aromas of fresh coffee and baking bread. After perusing the muffins and pastries, they ordered at the counter. Kincaid chose cappuccino and an almond croissant, his usual fare from the Maison Blanc in Holland Park Road on the mornings when he took the tube from Holland Park and hadn’t time for breakfast at home.
Had he gravitated towards the cafe here because he was homesick? he wondered.
“That’s just thoroughly wet,” he said aloud, and both Cullen and the cashier looked at him in surprise. “Don’t take any notice of me,” he told the cashier, giving her his best smile along with the correct change and an extra pound for the tip jar.
“Have a great day,” the girl replied, beaming at him.
“And that’s criminal,” Cullen muttered as they carried their breakfast back into the street.
“You’re just jealous.” Kincaid grinned. “Go on, then. Where were we? Maiden name?”
Doug took a sip of his coffee, winced. “Oh, right. That’s how she was known as a rower, so I suppose she wanted to go on that way. Although I’m not sure I’d have wanted to keep that reputation. ”
As they turned along Duke Street, Kincaid asked, “What happened?”
“The year after uni, she was the top prospect for British women’s single sculls at the next summer’s Olympics. But over the Christmas break, against strict orders from her coach, she went on a skiing holiday. She took a fall and fractured her wrist so badly it took her out of training for months. She was dropped from the squad.”
“And her coach—”
“Was Milo Jachym.” Doug finished his muffin and scoured the bag for crumbs.
Kincaid thought about this as he finished his own pastry and sipped gingerly at his coffee. “So you might say her relationship with Jachym was conflicted.”
“A bit, yes.”
“And you might think he’d resent her trying to make a comeback when he’s got his own women’s team he’s grooming for the Olympics now.”
“You might,” Doug agreed.
Having reached their turning for the police station, they paused in natural accord.
“When did she marry Atterton?” Kincaid asked.
“The next year. The same time as she started with the Met.”
“And the divorce?”
“Three years ago. She filed, but there are no details, as he didn’t contest. According to the court record, he was quite generous—he not only gave her the cottage but half his assets. I’d assume he offered the settlement before he realized how badly real estate investments would be hit.”
“Ah.” Kincaid gazed at the unassuming police station down the street, which faced a kebab house and a taxi service, and was glad not to see lurking reporters. Yet.
He thought about Freddie Atterton. “That sounds to me like a man who felt guilty. And possibly now regrets his largesse. Is he in financial trouble?”
“Barely keeping his head above water, according to some sources I rang in the City.”
“Then I’d say Rebecca Meredith’s solicitor is the first order of the day, as soon as we see what progress the forensics teams have made.” They’d got the solicitor’s name and number from Freddie before they left the cottage the previous night.
Cullen looked smug. “I rang her first thing this morning. She goes into work early. A very obliging lady. She said that unless Rebecca made a new will, everything goes to Freddie, and he’s also the executor.”
Kincaid raised an eyebrow. As much as he missed having Gemma on an investigation, he couldn’t fault Doug Cullen for efficiency. “Convenient.”
“Sweet, yes.” Cullen crumpled his muffin bag. “She also said she believed there were life insurance policies, and she gave me the name of Becca’s insurance broker. I’ve left a message.”
“Small world, this town,” Kincaid said, but he was thinking that Chief Superintendent Childs would be pleased. It looked as though Freddie Atterton had had plenty of motive for killing his ex-wife.
They found Detective Inspector Singla and two detective constables in the small room assigned for their use at Henley Police Station. Singla had set up a whiteboard for notes and a corkboard for the crime-scene photos, and a conference table had begun accumulating the inevitable piles of paper.
Singla already looked harried, his suit more rumpled than the day before, and the constables—one female, one male—looked anxious, as if they’d been on the receiving end of Singla’s ire. The male constable was taking phone calls, and from what Kincaid overheard, it sounded as if he was fielding the press.
“Superintendent,” Singla said, his tone slightly disapproving, as if they were late for a class. “We’ve a preliminary report from the forensics team at the boat. They’ve found a streak of pink paint on the underside of the hull. It looks like transfer from the blade of a Leander oar, but there doesn’t seem to be any damage to the oar remaining with the boat. There’s also some crazing in the hull’s fiberglass that appears to radiate from the paint streak. Possibly point of impact.”
Kincaid glanced at Cullen. “Could she have done that herself?”
“I can’t see how,” Cullen answered, frowning. “Although—if she tipped, and her oar came loose . . .” Walking over to the corkboard, he studied the photos, as if the body snagged below the weir might tell him something. “I suppose if the current was sweeping her away, she could have used the oar to try to capture the shell . . . The first thing rowers are taught is never to leave the boat. A rowing shell floats unless it’s really badly damaged.”
“Any sign of the missing oar?” Kincaid asked.
Singla ran his hand across his scalp, separating the thinning strands of his hair. “Not yet. It could be anywhere. Forensics is working on a paint match from the remaining oar.”
“Anything else? Any evidence of a struggle along the bank?”
“No.” Singla looked pained, as if he took the failure personally.
Turning to Cullen, Kincaid asked, “How hard a blow would it take to shatter a fiberglass hull?”
“These days most hulls are reinforced with Kevlar. But still, they’re fragile, and brittle, and they do get damaged often enough. I rowed into a bridge abutment once at school. It was an old training shell, but the coach was not happy.”
Kincaid couldn’t stifle a grin. “You rowed into a bridge?”
“You
“I take it you belonged to the second group.”
Cullen ignored this quip. “If you know the course well, which Becca Meredith would have done, you learn to navigate by landmarks.”
“What about the cottage?” Kincaid asked Singla. “Anything there?”
“Nothing that seems out of the ordinary. The calls on her home phone seem to correlate with the ex- husband’s account. He left a message at approximately the time Milo Jachym saw her take the boat out, as well as several messages later in the evening and the following morning.”
“He could have rung from anywhere,” Kincaid said thoughtfully. “He could have been checking to see if she’d taken the boat out. What about her mobile? Was it in the house?”
“In her handbag.” Singla nodded towards a polyethylene bag among the papers on the table. “I had the duty constable bring her personal effects. But we don’t know her voice mail password.”
“Maybe Mr. Atterton will be able to enlighten us. But meanwhile . . .” Kincaid pulled a chair out from the table, sat, opened the bag, and took out the phone. It was a sophisticated model, one he’d expect a senior officer to carry. But when he touched the screen, the wallpaper that appeared was a service provider’s stock picture.
Intrigued, he checked the phone’s photo files and found nothing. “Odd. She had no pictures stored on her phone.” He tried another application. “Nor did she use her calendar.”
