Bend.
Freddie took another sip of his gin and studied his friend. Ross hadn’t been as tall as most of the rowers, so he had tried to make up for the deficiency in height by adding bulk. He’d been good at lifting weights, and it had given him power if not finesse.
Now, although the shoulders under his lightweight sports coat were still broad, he looked thicker and softer around the middle. A few too many gins, Freddie thought, and raised his own. “Still working out?” he asked.
Ross looked pleased. “Got a new gym at home. A new house, in fact, in Barnes.”
“Barnes? That’s brilliant. Things must be going well for you.”
“Looking up, yeah,” Ross said, leaning in for a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve got a deal in the works”—he shook his head, grinning—“knock your sodding socks off.”
Like many Blues, regardless of the degrees they’d taken at university, Ross had gone into investment banking—with better results than Freddie had seen in commercial real estate, apparently.
He glanced round at the other men in the bar. Like Ross, they were wearing expensive clothes, drinking expensive drinks, huddled in quiet and self-important conference. Fat cats. They were fat cats. Had he been in danger of becoming one, too? Was that the real reason Becca had left him?
Freddie realized his mind was wandering. The gin was beginning to go to his head. He forced himself to concentrate. Ross had, after all, gone out of his way to be a mate today. “Listen, Ross. I really appreciate your doing this for me. You’re a good friend.”
“Bollocks.” Ross gave him an awkward clap on the shoulder. “It was the least anyone could do. You let me know whatever else you need. And Chris as well—she’d have come today if it wasn’t for work and the kids.”
“Chris, and the boys? They’re doing well?”
Ross lowered his voice again. “Chris may have a promotion in the works. All hush-hush, but she’s made a good job of impressing the right people.”
For an instant, Freddie heard Becca’s voice, slightly waspish, murmuring,
“—and the boys, well, it’s not official yet, but there’s a good chance for”—he looked round, and this time spoke in a whisper deserving of a state secret—“Eton.”
“Eton?” said Freddie, surprised at the rush of resentment he felt. “Wow. So no old school tie, then. Bedford School not good enough for the Abbott offspring?”
“It’s not that, man, you know that.” Ross sounded hurt. “It’s just that you’ve got to do whatever is best for the kids. Help them get on in the world.”
“Right.” Freddie forced a smile. Kids. He had wanted kids. Becca hadn’t. And now it would never matter.
Exhaustion swept over him, and he suddenly wanted nothing but to go home and be alone.
Ross tipped up the last of his drink, then, before Freddie could protest, signaled the barmaid and ordered another round for them both. Ross turned to him. “About today. I really am sorry, mate. Was it bad, at the mortuary? Was she—was she cut up or anything?”
“She was fine,” said Freddie, feeling guilty over his momentary antagonism towards his friend. “There was nothing that you could see, really. She just looked—” His throat tightened and he couldn’t bring himself to say the word.
“Have the police talked to you? Do they have any idea what happened?”
“They’ve talked to me, all right. But nobody’s told me anything. They called in a superintendent from Major Crimes. Scotland Yard.”
Ross gave a low whistle. “Big-time, buddy. They’re bringing in the muscle. So, have they asked you where you were?”
The alcohol from the night before had aggravated Kieran’s vertigo, as he’d known it would. After the search, he’d managed to avoid the rest of the team. But once on his own, he’d been unable to shut out the recurring image of Becca’s body, trapped in the roots below the weir, the strands of her hair moving like fronds in the current.
So he had gone to the pub, where Tavie had found him. Afterwards, he’d stumbled home and fallen onto the camp bed in the boatshed. For a while he’d drifted in a cider-induced doze, in which he’d seen Becca’s white face again and again, gazing up at him with open, pleading eyes.
But then the nightmare shifted, and he’d suddenly realized that parts of her body were missing, blown away, and her face became the faces of the men in his unit, and their screams had filled his ears.
Then it was Tavie, Tavie shouting at him, giving him commands he couldn’t understand and couldn’t follow.
He woke, sweating, and found the reality as bad as the dream. Becca. Becca was dead. And Tavie, his best friend—his only real friend—was lost to him.
At the first hint of dawn, he’d given up on sleep and made coffee as strong as he could bear. Then, with Finn beside him, he’d taken his cup outside and watched the light grow slowly on the river. Gray water melded into gray sky, then the skeletal shapes of trees began to appear on the far bank, and at last, as the mist lifted, the still-green froth of the willows trailing in the water’s edge.
The water’s edge . . . Kieran frowned in concentration, and then it flickered again, the image that had been teasing him since they’d found the Filippi.
He had seen someone at the water’s edge. Not where they’d found the boat, but a good bit farther upstream, the other side of Temple Island. A fisherman, or so he had thought, standing there in the shadows when he’d gone for his evening run on Sunday.
And he had been there again, on Monday.
Kieran had made a habit of timing his runs so that he passed Becca rowing her evening workout, but on Monday, she’d been late, and he must have already been back on the upstream side of Henley Bridge by the time she’d gone out.
Oh, dear God. If only he’d delayed a few minutes, dawdled on his route, could he have saved her?
And the fisherman—what if the fisherman had been waiting for her? She’d have passed right by him after she rounded Temple Island and started back towards Leander, and she’d have been staying close to the Bucks bank, where the wind and the current favored the upstream stroke.
If she’d capsized there, or been tipped, or been pulled out of the shell, then the end of Benham’s Wood, where they’d found the Filippi, was probably the first place the shell would have snagged as it floated downriver. And Becca—Becca would have gone on with the current, until her body caught in the eddy below the weir.
Kieran stood, determined to examine the place where he’d seen the man as soon as it was fully light. But then everything reeled and tipped sideways, and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the soft grass at the river’s edge.
Groaning, he mumbled, “Goddamned bloody vertigo.” What kind of life was this, when without warning it could fell him like a tree?
For a long time, he watched the whirling, juddering sky grow brighter. At last he drifted into a light sleep. Finn woke him by whimpering and nudging him with his nose.
“Sorry, boy,” he croaked, his mouth dry. “Fucking useless, aren’t I?”
Experimentally, he shifted his head a fraction. So far, so good. The short sleep had helped the dizziness, as it usually did. After a bit, he was able to get up and stagger inside, and he managed to pour some food into Finn’s bowl before stretching out on the camp bed. He slept again, more soundly, and when he woke in mid-afternoon, he felt stable enough on his feet to venture into Henley.
There was no easy access to the Buckinghamshire side of the Thames Path. He could have taken the Land Rover as far as the beginning of the footpath that veered off from the Marlow Road, but with the frequency and severity of the vertigo he hadn’t dared drive. So after taking the skiff the few yards across to the mainland, he walked, occasionally using Finn’s sturdy back for support. All the while he half hoped and half feared he would see Tavie.
A few of the people he passed, seeing his unsteady gait, threw him the disgusted looks reserved for drunks, but he didn’t care. He wanted only to see if he was right, or if the man in the trees had been a delusion.
The sun, partially obscured by the clouds moving in from the west, was low in the sky by the time he passed the entrance to Phyllis Court and turned onto the footpath. Finn watched the meadow by Henley Football Club
