Angus Craig?”
Kincaid started the car but let it idle for a moment while he thought. “Retired, as of a few months ago, if I remember correctly.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not personally, really, although I’ve met him. He’s given talks at some training courses I’ve been on, and I’ve spoken to him at a couple of leaving parties. He’s one of those hail-fellow-well-met types. A bit too jolly. Edging on pompous.” Frowning, Kincaid checked his mirrors and eased into traffic. “But I’ve no idea what the hell he has to do with Rebecca Meredith.”
Cullen already had his phone out and was tapping in queries. By the time Kincaid had looped round into Holland Park Road, Cullen’s hand froze on the phone.
“Bugger.” He looked over at Kincaid, his eyes wide. “Angus Craig lives in Hambleden.”
Chapter Ten
—Daniel Topolski
The face above the carefully arranged white sheet on the mortuary trolley looked nothing like Becca.
Oh, it had her features, all right—the straight nose with the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge from days spent rowing in the sun, the dark, level brows, the tiny pinprick of a mole near her right ear, the slightly square chin.
But Freddie had never seen Becca’s face still or composed. She was always in motion—even in sleep, her brow had been creased, as if she were working out a knotty problem, or replaying a training session, and her lips and eyelids had moved in sequence with her dreams.
Someone had taken the trouble to comb her hair, and it fell back in gentle waves that she’d never have tolerated in life. Freddie clenched his hand, resisting the impulse to smooth it, or to touch the fan of the dark eyelashes that, under the harsh overhead lighting, cast a shadow on her cheeks.
He nodded to the mortuary attendant. “That’s her. That’s Becca.”
“That would be Rebecca Meredith, sir?” the young man said, and Freddie found himself inordinately distracted by the ring in the man’s nose.
He looked away. “Yes. Yes, that’s her.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” The condolence was rote. “If you could just sign here?” The attendant handed Freddie a clipboard with all the ceremony of a delivery boy requesting a signature for a parcel.
And that was that.
Freddie walked out into the fresh air of the hospital car park, which felt warm by comparison, to find Ross Abbott waiting. Ross had left the engine idling in his late-model white BMW, a shout-out to the world that he didn’t need to worry about the price of petrol. It would have annoyed Becca no end, but Freddie didn’t care about his friend’s affectations at the moment. He collapsed gratefully into the soft leather seat.
“You all right, man?” said Ross.
Freddie managed another nod. Ross had picked him up from his flat in the Malthouse at lunchtime and driven him to the hospital in Reading. Freddie had asked him to wait outside—he hadn’t wanted a witness if he broke down—but in the end he had felt strangely detached, as if the experience were happening to someone else.
“Where do you want to go now?” Ross asked, jerking him back to the present.
“For a drink.”
“Henley? Magoos?”
“No, it’s too early for Magoos. They don’t open until four and it’s only half past two.” Nor could Freddie bear the thought of the boisterous atmosphere of the bar on Hart Street. He knew too many of the people who were likely to wander in after work, and the last thing he wanted at the moment was questions or condolences.
“Hotel du Vin?” suggested Ross. “Not far for you to walk home then,” he added, with what Freddie knew was an attempt at humor.
“Yeah, okay.” The hotel was across the road from Freddie’s flat, and was, like the Malthouse, part of the old Brakspear Brewery complex. The hotel’s bar was usually quiet, and while locals would filter in later in the evening, in mid-afternoon any custom was likely to be business travelers.
On the drive back to Henley, Ross regaled him with a detailed description of the car’s features. It might have been a bit insensitive, but it meant Freddie didn’t have to speak, and for that he was grateful.
The hotel’s bar was as quiet as Freddie had hoped. A few men wearing polo shirts and sports jackets sat on the leather sofas, conferring over papers, but they didn’t look up at the new arrivals. The girl serving was new, which was a blessing. She took their orders with only cursory interest.
“A Hendrick’s,” said Ross, giving her the smile Freddie remembered him trying on every girl in Oxford. “Double. On ice. With a slice of cucumber.”
For a moment, Freddie was tempted to remind Ross that he had to drive, then realized there’d been a time when he’d not have thought twice about driving on a double gin. And it wasn’t his business. He shrugged. “Make that two.”
Ross gave the barmaid his card, but after a moment she came back and said quietly, “I’m sorry, sir, but your card’s been declined.”
“Bloody bank.” Ross’s face flushed with the quick temper Freddie remembered. “Stupid buggers couldn’t put their bloody socks on straight.”
“Look, let me,” said Freddie, embarrassed for his friend. He reached for his wallet. “It’s the least I can —”
“No, no.” Ross had already pulled out another card. “No problem. It’s just that card. Their computers always seem to be going down, or something.”
The second card seemed fine, as the girl returned with the drinks and a perfunctory smile.
Ross held up his glass. “Well,
“Salute, then,” said Freddie, and lifted his own. The first swallow of gin went down like fire, and with the smell of cucumber came memories of summer regattas and too many gins and Pimm’s drunk in canvas enclosures. He saw Becca, her face flushed with victory after a race, and Ross shaking a bottle of champagne to make it fizz. His head swam. Was he remembering Henley or Oxford?
He looked at Ross. “We had some good times, didn’t we?”
“Oh, that we did.” Ross downed half his gin and made a face. “But the no-drinks-in-training thing was a bitch.”
“You never did want to work that hard, did you?” said Freddie. He remembered Ross, always skiving off training with some complaint or other, and then, when he’d been put in Isis, the second boat, he’d been furious. But fate had smiled on him when, on the day of the Boat Race, his counterpart in the Blue Boat had come down with a nasty case of stomach flu and Ross had taken his place.
Fate had been fickle, however. Everything had gone against them on race day. The weather was foul and the crew had lost their synergy. The boat just didn’t move, and the harder they tried, the worse it got. They’d been half swamped, and had lost by humiliating lengths, collapsing in agony at the finish. And afterwards, no one had said what everyone had thought: Ross Abbott had not been up to the job.
But Ross hadn’t let the disastrous race damage his prospects, and he’d made good use of his Blue. Although Oxford and Cambridge Blues were awarded in other sports, the rowing Blue was still by far the most prestigious. And if you made the Blue Boat, it didn’t matter if you won or lost, as long as you didn’t sink before the Fulham
