No Mark upon Her

Quickly, he scrolled through her e-mails and text messages, but they all seemed to be work-related, except for a text message from Freddie Atterton sent at approximately the time she’d gone out in the boat, saying, Ring me!!!! I talked to Milo. The phone also showed two voice mails, but he couldn’t retrieve them. There was no visual voice mail.

He checked her contact list—short, which by now didn’t surprise him. Going through it would be a job for Doug, but at the moment he was pleased to see that she’d listed her own mobile number. He took out his phone and called it.

The ringtone, like the wallpaper, was standard, a double tone.

He was beginning to form a very curious picture of Rebecca Meredith. “She didn’t by any chance have another phone?” he asked Singla.

“Not that we found, no.”

Kincaid rifled through the rest of the contents in the bag. “A pen,” he said, cataloging the contents aloud. “Black, fairly expensive, rollerball. No artistic, leaky fountain pens here. A wallet, black leather. And in that we have a driving license, forty pounds in notes and some change, a debit card, a credit card, a Selfridge’s store card.” Going back to the license, he studied the picture. Although her face was long, Rebecca Meredith’s features were good, and in other circumstances she might have been pretty. But in this photo she stared sternly into the camera, as if someone had dared her to smile and she was determined to win the bet.

Closing the wallet, he went on to the next thing. “Oyster card, standard issue folder. A packet of tissues.” He unzipped a small makeup kit and dumped out the contents. “Compact. Lipstick. Lip balm. Tin of aspirin. A pack of tampons.” Moving those items to one side, he shook out the polyethylene bag, then glanced at Doug. “And that’s it. No crumpled gum or sweet wrappers. No scribbled phone numbers. No pizza-chain loyalty cards. No cologne samples carried for a quick touch-up before a date.”

“Nothing not practical or essential,” agreed Doug. “And absolutely nothing personal.”

“Sir,” said Singla, “I really don’t see the importance of what this woman did or didn’t carry in her handbag. Surely—”

“Think about it for a moment,” Kincaid interrupted. “Are you married, DI Singla?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Do you know what your wife keeps in her handbag?” Kincaid thought of Gemma, who now carried a tote bag the size of a small suitcase, filled with Charlotte’s favorite books and biscuits and invariably, Bob, the green stuffed elephant that Charlotte refused to leave home without. He wondered how he was going to lug all that kit around and still look remotely manly.

Singla shook his head, looking horrified. “The kitchen sink, if she could fit it in.” He closed his eyes, thinking. “The kids’ school reports, old shopping lists, grocery receipts, sample packets of biscuits. Even tea bags, just in case a cafe doesn’t have the kind she likes. An umbrella, because you never know when it might rain. And always a book—she’s a great reader, my wife. She likes the sort with the book club questions in the back.”

Nodding, Kincaid asked, “What sort of biscuits?”

“Hob Nobs.”

“What color is her umbrella?”

Singla considered. He’d lost his impatient expression. “Pink with yellow polka dots. She says if it rains you should carry something cheerful to compensate.”

“What type of tea?”

“Chai. And she always asks for hot milk in a cafe. It’s embarrassing to me, but no one else seems to mind.”

“You see?” Kincaid smiled. “I now know a good bit about your wife.” He didn’t add that he liked Singla the better for it. “I’d wager she’s intelligent, perhaps slightly plump, and of a cheerful and optimistic disposition. A woman who knows what she likes and usually gets it.”

Singla rolled his eyes. “You can say that again. And that is a fair description. But what does my wife, or my wife’s handbag, have to do with Rebecca Meredith?”

The young female constable, who’d been listening intently, spoke up. “It’s not your wife’s handbag that’s important, sir. It’s Rebecca Meredith’s. And I’d say it tells us that she was a woman with something to hide.”

Chapter Nine

Sculling is for individualists

.

—Brad Alan Lewis

Assault on Lake Casitas

The detective constable was tall, with a lanky, coltish grace. She had shoulder-length shiny brown hair and brown eyes, and it occurred to Kincaid that Rebecca Meredith might have had a similar look ten years ago.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Imogen, sir. DC Imogen Bell.”

“Are you by any chance a rower?”

“No, sir. But I’ve gone out with a few. Conceited gits, for the most part. Think just because they can move a boat, they’re God’s gift to—” She caught Singla’s eye and stopped. “Um, sorry, sir.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m always interested in the inside scoop,” Kincaid said, and saw a flash of a smile before she schooled her face into an expression her guv’nor would approve.

“Did you know DCI Meredith, Detective Bell?”

“I knew who she was, sir. But not to speak to. I’d passed her in the street a few times. We— Well, I suppose I looked up to her, as a role model. She seemed as if she’d stand up for herself, you know?” She cast another wary glance at Singla, but he had taken a phone call.

Bell’s colleague, a rather podgy young man in an unfortunately snug suit, gave a slight shake of his head and looked away, as if consigning her to her fate.

Kincaid, however, was not concerned with DI Singla’s notions of propriety. If these officers were his potential team, he wanted to get a feel for their personalities and for the dynamic between them. “Do you know Freddie Atterton, her ex-husband?” he asked.

“Again, not to speak to,” answered Bell. “But he has, um, a certain reputation.”

“And what would that be?”

“A bit of a ladies’ man, sir. And he likes to go out to the clubs and bars—you know, the nicer places, like Hotel du Vin and Loch Fyne—although I don’t think he’s really known as a heavy drinker.”

“You’re very well informed.”

Kincaid’s remark earned a smirk from the podgy constable. “That’s because she knows all the bartenders,” said the young man. “And she forgot to mention the strip club.”

Imogen Bell shot him a look of dislike. “It’s a small town. And bartenders make good sources. They always know what’s going on, and they usually have a pretty good idea if people are up to something they shouldn’t be.”

Kincaid was liking Imogen Bell better and better.

“Henley has a strip club?” asked Cullen, sounding as if that idea was in the flying pigs category.

“It’s on the car park.” Bell shrugged dismissively. “And it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. It’s basically a nightclub with a few girls who do lap dances. It’s where everyone in Henley goes when the pubs close.”

“It’s also next door to the senior center,” said her colleague, “and has caused no end of upset with the town council.”

Kincaid studied him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Bean. Laurence Bean. Sir.”