who just for an instant reminded Kincaid of Gemma—went on taking samples and marking positions on a chart.
Kincaid raised a brow in surprise. “It looks pretty devastating to me.”
“Messy, yeah, but the structure is still intact. Wall joists, all but one beam, even most of the roof.” Morris shook his head. “Place was full of solvents. Good thing most of them were stored in a metal cabinet.”
“Is that what started the fire?” Kincaid asked. “The solvents?”
“No. Have a look.” Morris walked to the shed and they followed. He pointed through what had been a window, now a hole surrounded by a few bits of splintered frame. “It was a petrol bomb, all right. We found pieces of the bottle and of the rag wick. And you can see the cone of the blaze from the point of impact.”
Peering into the shed, Kincaid could see nothing but soot, rubbish, and puddles of water. “I’ll take your word for it. So, if that’s the case, did it come through this window?”
“I’d say definitely. Only one tin of solvent exploded, but that might have been what gave your owner the gash on the head.”
Kincaid turned and surveyed the shore, gauging the distance. “An easy throw from a boat?”
“For someone with a good arm,” agreed Morris. “Not to be sexist, but most likely a bloke.”
Cullen walked back to the landing raft and gazed upstream and downstream. “We’ve been checking with boat hires, thinking maybe someone ‘borrowed’ a little skiff. Why not a rowing single? There’s no reason a sculler couldn’t have eased in, tossed the bottle, rowed away. Quiet, quick, nearly invisible.”
Thinking it through, Kincaid said, “We’ve made the assumption that whoever killed Becca Meredith was a rower. So that would make sense. But where did he get the boat?”
Doug shrugged. “There are three rowing clubs within easy distance for an experienced sculler. Or—” He gestured towards the single scull resting on trestles a few yards from the boatshed, streaked with soot but otherwise apparently not badly damaged. “I’d guess that was Connolly’s boat. Who knows how many other boats there are on private property up and down the river?”
“There was a boat in the shed,” offered Morris. “It looks like Connolly was repairing it. Some burn damage, but not too bad. And that one”—he pointed towards a canvas-draped shape on the far side of the little lawn—“I’d call that one a bloody miracle. Not a cinder on it.”
They walked across the grass and Doug lifted the tarp. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, staring. He pulled the tarp farther down, with the slow reverence a lover might have used in revealing a lovely, naked woman. When the boat was free, he stepped back and gave a low whistle.
It was a racing single, but it was built of wood, not carbon fiber. The shell was complete and glistened with new varnish.
It might be a smaller version of the Sydney Four suspended in the museum, Kincaid thought, but the wood gave the boat a sense of richness—it almost hummed with life. He reached out, ran a hand along the grain of the perfectly joined and sanded segments. The wood felt like satin and was warm beneath his palm.
“Mahogany, at a guess,” said Morris. “I do some woodworking, but this”—he shook his head—“this is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Certainly beyond an amateur’s talents. It’s exquisite.”
“Does anyone still row in wooden shells?” Kincaid asked.
“Some.” Doug stroked the boat, too, as if he couldn’t resist. “Connoisseurs. And a few people race in them, but probably not at championship level. But this—this you would want to own just because it’s beautiful.” He walked round the shell, studying it. “This isn’t just engineering. It’s art. This is as good a design as I’ve seen in a high-tech carbon-fiber boat—maybe better, although I’m no expert.”
He looked up, as if suddenly assailed by paranoia. “You can’t leave this boat just sitting out here. Anything could happen to it. And it could be worth a bloody fortune.”
“A fortune?” Kincaid asked. “That’s a relative term.”
“Well, a fortune to someone like me,” Doug admitted. “But a boat like this would be pricey even for a top- flight sculler. And if the design is unique”—he shrugged—“who knows?”
Would someone have killed for a boat like this? Kincaid wondered. Was it possible that the attack on Kieran was connected to this boat, and not to Becca Meredith? Or were the two things related in a way he didn’t see?
“We’ll have a word with Kieran about it, as soon as possible,” he said. “But first I need to see if forensics have made any progress at the site Kieran pinpointed. And we need to discover how the guy who did this”—he glanced at the burned shed—“got here. You’re right about the boat, though, Doug,” he added thoughtfully. “It needs to be kept safe.”
“The neighbor’s been very helpful,” said Morris. “And he’s got a little shed. Maybe he could lock it up for Mr. Connolly. I’ll have a word with him when we finish processing the scene.”
Kincaid nodded. “Good idea.” He turned to Cullen. “Doug, I’ll organize someone to check with the other rowing clubs, if you can go back to Leander. Talk to Milo Jachym and the rest of the staff. See if anyone took a single scull out last night. And ask if anyone saw Freddie Atterton in the club. You’ll fit right in,” he added with a grin. “In the meantime, I’ll be at the incident room. I put off the press this morning but I’ll have to—” Cullen’s phone rang, cutting him off.
“Sorry, guv,” said Cullen, with a shrug of apology as he pulled the phone from his jacket. He answered, identified himself, shot a glance at Kincaid as he listened. Then, thanking the caller, he hung up.
“You’re not going to like this,” he told Kincaid. “But the chief will. That was Becca Meredith’s insurance broker, ringing me back. It seems that Freddie Atterton was still the beneficiary on Becca’s life insurance policy. To the tune of five hundred thousand pounds.”
Gemma had reached the kitchen doorway before she turned back. “You’ll be all right?”
Looking up from the tiny tea set arranged on the kitchen table, Alia gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
The young Asian woman had been Charlotte’s nanny when the child lived in Fournier Street with her parents. Last night, after Kincaid had left for Henley, Gemma had been unable to get the image of Angus Craig out of her mind. She’d wanted to follow up on her idea of asking Melody to check the Project Sapphire files, so she’d rung Alia to see if she could mind Charlotte this morning.
Alia had been free and had seemed pleased to be asked. Since she’d arrived half an hour ago, she and Charlotte had been having a happy reunion over sips of milk in the teacups. Charlotte had shown no distress over the idea of Gemma’s going out. Toby was visiting a neighbor, and Kit was closeted in his room with the dogs, working, he’d said, on a project he’d been assigned over half-term break. The house, for the moment, seemed weirdly calm.
Now, studying Alia, Gemma thought that the girl looked slimmer, her hair shinier, her skin clearer. “School going well?” she asked. Alia had set her sights on training as a solicitor, although she had little encouragement from her very traditional Bangladeshi family.
“It’s good, yeah.” With a delicate brown finger, Alia moved Charlotte’s teacup away from the edge of the table. Gemma could have sworn she was blushing. “Rashid’s been helping me study.”
“Rashid?” Gemma looked at her in surprise. Surely she didn’t mean Rashid Kaleem?
“You know, the pathologist guy,” said Alia, confirming it. “He says he knows you. He’s been helping out at the health clinic, since . . .” Her voice faded.
Alia had idolized Charlotte’s parents, Naz and Sandra, and had volunteered alongside Sandra at the East End health clinic that served neighborhood Asian women. Gemma realized that she was the one who’d told Rashid about the clinic—how like him to step in without a fuss and lend a hand. And to offer mentoring to this young woman who had lost Naz and Sandra’s support.
But Alia was young and impressionable, and one look at Rashid Kaleem was enough to make older and wiser women swoon. She hoped he wouldn’t unwittingly break the girl’s heart.
“Oh, super. That’s great,” she said, realizing that Alia was looking disappointed.
“Lia, I want lorries,” said Charlotte, coming to Gemma’s rescue. She rolled one of Toby’s toy vans across the table. “Can lorries have tea?”
Sitting on the kitchen chair beside Alia, she swung her little trainer-clad feet high above the floor. One of the hair slides Gemma had clipped so carefully in her hair that morning had come undone, and there seemed to be a streak of mud—or at least Gemma hoped it was mud—across the front of her T-shirt. So much for her visions of a
