would house the Regatta enclosures come June. If he peered to the left, he could just see down into the yard where the boats were racked.
Resisting the urge to glance into the dining rooms on either side of the little foyer, he turned back to Lily, but not before he’d glimpsed the oars mounted on the walls. Olympic oars. Dear God. And Rebecca Meredith’s might one day have joined them.
“Lily, you were here on Tuesday morning, right?” he asked, trying to picture the scene. “Do you remember who was first worried that Rebecca Meredith might be missing? Was it Freddie Atterton or Milo?”
When she frowned, he noticed she had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “I don’t know. Freddie was sitting by the window, there.” She pointed towards the table that directly overlooked the boatshed and the river. “He got up when he saw Milo in reception. But I had to make more coffee, and when I came back from the kitchen, they were both gone. Then Milo came in again from outside and said Freddie was searching for Becca.”
Shaking her head, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “I still can’t believe it. We’re all just gutted.”
“Were you good friends?” he asked.
Shrugging, Lily looked away and tucked a strand of her honey-brown hair behind her ear. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say anyone was good friends with Becca. But she was always”—Lily paused, then went on—“not kind, maybe, but considerate. You’d be surprised how many of the members aren’t. She never took advantage of staff, and if you were a rower, she treated you with respect. She never made a big deal of who she was.”
He saw her eyes flick over his shoulder. Instantly her posture became more erect, her manner once again managerial. She gave him a professional smile. “Here’s Milo now. I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
With regret, Doug watched her slender back as she walked into the dining room. He wondered if he might somehow manage to run into her off duty and ask her for a drink, although he knew he should resist the temptation. It was never a good idea to mix a personal relationship with a case.
Then he turned to shake Milo Jachym’s hand. “Lily said you wanted a word,” said Milo. “But let’s talk somewhere other than the members’ areas.” He led Doug along the corridor to the door marked CREW.
As Doug entered behind him, he felt a breathless little bump of anticipation. This was hallowed ground, where the greatest rowers in the country—maybe in the world—had gathered at their leisure.
Reality did not live up to expectation.
For a moment, Doug thought he might have been back at his old school dining hall. There was the same utilitarian furniture, the same smell of eggs and chips and bacon frying. And although the handful of rowers scattered at tables—consuming what Doug guessed was their second breakfast of the day—looked freshly showered, the air held the faint but pervasive scent of sweat and moldering athletic shoes.
“Tea?” asked Milo, gesturing Doug to a seat at one of the tables just inside the dining room door.
Catching sight of the industrial tea urn near the kitchen, Doug had to force enthusiasm into his reply. “Yeah, thanks. That would be great.” He wished he’d taken Lily up on the offer of a drink from the bar.
Milo returned a moment later bearing two mugs of milky fluid and a sugar bowl. “Thanks.” Gingerly, Doug sipped. The tea tasted as if it had come from the inside of a cast-iron boiler. He reached for the sugar bowl and shoveled in a coma-inducing amount.
He could feel the covert glances of the rowers, male and female. The room had gone quiet except for the sound of a race video that was playing on the telly.
Doug loosened his tie. When he’d learned he was going to Leander, he’d been glad he’d worn his best sports jacket and tie that day. It was
But here, with the casually dressed crew, he felt awkward and overdressed—the odd boy out—while Milo, in his pressed chinos and a navy Leander polo that sported a little pink hippo on the breast, had it just right.
“Baked beans on toast?” offered Milo. “Chef’s special today,” he added with a twinkle. Someone in the room farted, as if on cue, followed by a suppressed snigger. Milo ignored both.
“The rower’s best friend.” Doug managed to suppress a snigger himself. “But no thanks. I had something at the station this morning, and I’m not fit enough to deserve a second breakfast.”
“You’re a rower,” said Milo, eyeing him speculatively. “The other night—you knew your way around. But not varsity, I think. Not tall enough.”
“School eight.”
“Ah. Bow or stroke?”
“Bowside.”
“What school?”
“Eton,” Doug answered with less than his usual reluctance. Here, unlike in the force, he would not be teased for having been a public school boy. He was, however, beginning to feel as if he were the one being interviewed.
Milo nodded. “Good program. Do you row now?”
“I’ve just bought a house in Putney. I thought I’d give the LRC a try.” Doug had rowed out of London Rowing Club at regattas when he was at school, but had not been back as an adult. When he’d been debating whether or not to buy the house, he’d walked down Putney Reach and gazed up at the venerable club. Leander had once been housed there, overlooking the tidal Thames, before its move to Henley, and the two clubs were still closely associated.
Not that the LRC was as exclusive as Leander, but Doug hadn’t quite geared himself up to walking in and applying for a membership. Most of the members would be more experienced rowers, and he had, as always, the hovering fear of appearing a fool.
“Bought a boat?” asked Milo.
The coach was stalling, Doug thought, perhaps to give the rowers a chance to make a graceful exit. But if he hadn’t wanted an audience, why had he picked a common room for their conversation? Surely there were other places in the club where they wouldn’t have disturbed the members or the crew.
“No. I thought I’d get my feet wet, so to speak. A club boat should suit me just fine for the moment.” He took another sip of the tea, tried not to grimace. Determined to get things back on track, he said, “Now, Mr. Jachym, if I could just—”
“Becca. Yes, of course.” Milo sighed, as if accepting the inevitable. His burly shoulders sagged a little. “Terrible business. Everyone is still in shock. And Freddie isn’t returning my calls.”
“We’ll be speaking to him later this morning. I’m afraid this is now officially a murder investigation.”
Milo’s face went still. For an instant, Doug had a glimpse of the man beneath the jovial exterior—the man who drove his rowers beyond their endurance and expected even more of them. You didn’t coach athletes of Leander’s caliber without being tough and cagey—a strategist of the first order. And Doug had the feeling Milo had been expecting the next move in the game.
The remaining rowers seemed to have read a signal in Milo’s body language, or in the change in his voice. They abandoned the remains of their meals, and one by one trickled out—not, however, without casting more curious glances in Doug’s direction.
When the room was empty, Milo nodded, his expression once again inscrutable. “So. Where do you go from here, Sergeant?”
“You’re not surprised by the idea that Becca Meredith was murdered?” asked Doug.
“I’m shocked, yes,” Milo answered. “But I think I would be even more so if you’d determined that Becca had drowned in a stupid or careless accident.”
“You trained her,” said Doug, taking his measure. “Stupidity or carelessness would have reflected badly on you.”
“That’s part of it.” Milo shrugged, giving Doug a challenging glance. “Now you seem shocked, Mr. Cullen. That’s human nature. We always think of ourselves first, and only a liar doesn’t admit to it.
“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t grieve for Becca,” he went on, his voice suddenly hard. “And for Freddie, and for what Becca might have done or might have become. Or that
“Perhaps not the best thing to admit to a police officer, Mr. Jachym,” suggested Doug mildly.
“Then let’s hope you catch your man before I have a chance to lay hands on him.”
Doug gazed at him consideringly. “Would you still feel that way if it were your friend who was responsible?”
“My friend?” Milo looked startled, then drew his bushy brows together as realization struck. “If by that, you
