No Mark upon Her

had as much of a row as you could have with Becca, because she would just shut you out—she said that she couldn’t be seen to have a—a relationship with anyone.”

From the way Kieran colored and glanced at Tavie, Kincaid suspected that those weren’t the exact words Becca had used. “Why not?” he asked.

“She said she couldn’t risk it being used as ammunition against her.”

Chapter Thirteen

Single scullers were an odd lot, even in the peculiar world of rowing. They were both revered and distrusted by other rowers—revered because sculling was a higher form of rowing art, much harder to learn than the “sweep” rowing done at colleges

.

—Daniel J. Boyne

The Red Rose Crew: A True Story of Women, Winning, and the Water

The pain seared through his legs, his arms, his shoulders, his chest. He thought he would do anything to make it stop. Die, even.

But some small part of his brain, hazy from oxygen deprivation, told him he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop, couldn’t die. Not yet.

Water, freezing dirty water from the tidal Thames, lapped over his feet, then began to spill over the sides of the boat. But it might have been treacle, for all the progress the eight was making through it.

The boat felt as though it were made of cement, every stroke of the oars seemed a ponderous effort. Someone had given out, given up, and the rest were pulling a deadweight. Who the hell was it? Anger surged through him, but his lips were too cold to give it voice.

From bow and stroke, he heard the hoarse curses of other men too exhausted to shout. Then, “Move it! Move the fucking boat, you bastards!” screamed the cox, the only one of them with enough energy left to make himself heard. “Bowside, bowside, watch your oars! We’re going to . . .”

Too late. Their oars clashed and tangled with the oars of the other boat. There was a crack, a sharp pain in his chest—the handle of his oar hitting him with crushing force—then the oar was torn from his hands.

“No!” he shouted. “No!” They’d never recover from this. He had to—

But the icy water washed over his mouth, his face. The boat was going down, and he couldn’t breathe . . .

Freddie woke, sweating, thrashing, gasping, his sheets twined round him like ropes.

“Shit. Oh, shit.” He sat up, pushing away the covers. The bloody Boat Race nightmare. He hadn’t had that one in years. But this time it had been worse. His subconscious had pieced together what had been a disastrous rough weather race with—with what must have happened to Becca. Dear God.

But the realization that he’d been dreaming brought little relief, because awake he felt just as helpless and out of control.

Until Ross had brought it up in the bar yesterday afternoon, he hadn’t realized that the police actually might believe he’d killed Becca. “They always think it’s the spouse,” Ross had said. “Or ex-spouse, in your case.”

In the shock of the first hours after Becca’s death, Freddie had just assumed their questions were routine. Now he saw that he had been an idiot, that he had no alibi for the time Becca must have drowned, no way to convince them of his innocence. He was as lost as he had been in the dream.

He lay back against the damp and pummeled pillows. Did it really matter? he wondered. Because nothing that remained to him seemed of any consequence at all.

Kincaid enjoyed the full English breakfast served at the Red Lion—with only the tiniest twinge of guilt for having deprived Doug Cullen of the same delights the previous morning. Then, as he had more than half an hour before he had to meet Doug at the train station, and as it was a gloriously crisp, bright autumnal morning, he left the hotel and walked across the road to Henley Bridge.

Leaning on the parapet, he gazed downriver, where the crew was just going out from Leander. Fours and eights pushed away from the landing raft, the crews taking a few moments to settle themselves and adjust gear or rigging. Then the oars began to dip in unison, and as they rose from the water, they cast droplets that sparkled like diamonds in the clear light.

The boats began to slip away downstream, their coaches following along the towpath on their bicycles. Kincaid recognized Milo Jachym, shouting instructions to the women’s eight.

He watched until boats and coaches disappeared from view, then left the bridge and walked thoughtfully up Thames Side towards the railway station. When he reached Station Road, he checked his watch, and finding that he still had time to spare, continued along the pedestrian path until he reached the River and Rowing Museum. He’d read a brochure about the museum that morning at breakfast, and it had given him an idea.

Inside, he bypassed the lure of the museum shop, filled with potential gifts for Gemma and the children, and resisted the temptation of The Wind in the Willows exhibition as well.

Climbing the stairs, he entered the long gallery where the Sydney Coxless Four hung from the ceiling on permanent display. In that boat, Steve Redgrave, Matthew Pinsent, Tim Foster, and James Cracknell had won a gold medal for Great Britain in the Sydney Olympics in 2000. According to the placard, it was a British boat, an Aylings, custom built for that particular crew and that particular race.

Seen from below, the long white hull seemed almost alien in its proportions, too impossibly long and slender to function. Out of its watery element, it might have been a giant’s flying sword.

A video of the race itself played in an endless loop on a large screen at the room’s end. Kincaid had seen the race at the time, of course—the victory of Team GB had dominated every news and sports program for days—but he’d paid it no more than passing attention.

Now, however, he watched the six minutes of the race intently, mesmerized by the power, the pain, and the sheer breathtaking beauty of it. When the loop started over, he turned away reluctantly, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in his ears.

What he’d wanted was to better understand who Rebecca Meredith had been, what had made her tick. And he thought, looking at the boat, watching the film, that rowing at that level must be beyond anything most ordinary people ever experienced—a seductive cycle of pain and exhilaration and inconceivable grace.

But had it meant more to Becca Meredith than anything else in her life? Had it meant so much that she’d been willing to make a deal that would have tarnished her in a way that Angus Craig had not?

“Bugger,” said Doug Cullen. He stood beside Kincaid on the lawn in front of the blackened remains of Kieran Connolly’s boatshed.

From the train station, they’d walked to the boat hire above Henley Bridge and taken a small motor launch to the island. Kincaid had been happy to turn the boat driving over to Cullen, who had piloted with finesse, easing the little launch into the landing raft with nary a bump.

Two uniformed arson investigators were moving methodically through the site, photographing, measuring, sampling, and Kincaid guessed that the launch tied up at the next-door neighbor’s larger dock belonged to them. The blue-and-white crime-scene tape that had been staked round the shed swayed slightly in the rising breeze.

The photographer came out of the shed and walked across the postage stamp of lawn to meet them.

Kincaid held up his warrant card. “Superintendent Kincaid, Sergeant Cullen. Scotland Yard.”

“Owen Morris. Oxfordshire Fire Investigation.” Morris transferred the camera to his left hand and shook theirs. “Been expecting you.” He had gray-blond hair, bristle cut, and the ruddy complexion of a fair-skinned man who spent too much time in the sun.

The smell of wet ash was strong, even in the cool air, and Kincaid thought that in yesterday’s muggy damp the odor would have been sickening.

“This guy was damned lucky,” said Morris, nodding towards the shed, where his partner, a young redhead—