No Mark upon Her

doubted she’d said anything at all.

And, as he’d been warned off mentioning her allegations, for the moment he was going to follow suit. “I don’t know. I just think it’s odd, that’s all, you striking up an acquaintance with a retired Met officer a few days before your ex-wife’s murder. And you say he didn’t turn up for the breakfast with you on Tuesday morning. Did he contact you afterwards, offer an explanation?”

“No,” said Freddie. “That morning, Lily said there was an accident on the Marlow Road, so I thought he might have got hung up in traffic. Then—afterwards—I never thought to—”

Kincaid’s phone rang. He swore under his breath, but answered when he saw that the caller was DC Bell.

“Sir.”

He’d have recognized her voice, brisk and competent, without the caller ID.

“You wanted me to let you know. The forensics teams are on their way. And I’ve been to Henley Rowing Club and Upper Thames Rowing Club. No boats reported missing last night, but some of the members keep them racked outside, and no one was keeping a particular watch.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Kincaid said. He had indeed asked her to let him know when the teams were on their way to take in Freddie’s car, and to gather Atterton’s shoes and clothes to test against the footprint and fibers found at the riverbank.

And he’d meant to time his interview accordingly, asking the pertinent questions and leaving Freddie no time to hide or clean anything before the teams arrived. But nothing in this interview was going according to plan.

“Sir?” Bell sounded nonplussed.

“Not you, Bell, sorry. How long before they get here?”

“Half an hour, maybe.”

“Okay, thanks, Detective Bell. And good work on the clubs. I’ll get back to you.” Hanging up, Kincaid shook his head to cut off the question he could see forming on Doug’s lips, then sat down facing Freddie.

“Mr. Atterton—Freddie—there are some officers coming to examine your car and some of your belongings.” Before Freddie could protest, Kincaid held up a hand. “This is just routine, okay? They’ll try not to inconvenience you any more than necessary.”

“Routine? My car? My things? Why would you—what things?” Freddie started to push himself up off the sofa, but Kincaid and Doug had him effectively hemmed in.

“Boots or walking shoes, I would think. And outdoor jackets. But before we get to that, we need to ask you some questions about last night,” Kincaid continued. “Can you tell me what you were doing between seven and nine o’clock?”

“What?” Freddie looked completely befuddled. “Last night? Why on earth do you want to know about last night?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“I was here. I’d had drinks with a mate earlier, across the street. He—he took me to the mortuary.” Freddie stopped and drank the rest of the water in his glass. “But then I came home. I was waiting for Becca’s mum to call from South Africa. She’s not booking her plane ticket until we know what we’re doing about—about funeral arrangements.”

“And did she ring you?”

“Yeah.” Freddie grimaced at the recollection. “Yes, she did. I guess it was about eight, but I’m not sure. I wasn’t watching the time.”

“Did she ring you here, on a landline, or on your mobile?” Kincaid asked.

“Landline. Otherwise it would have cost her a fortune, and Marianne is ever mindful of her pennies.”

Kincaid cocked his head, curious about the evident bitterness. “Do you not get on with Becca’s mother?”

Sighing, Freddie said, “No one got on with anyone, to tell you the truth. Becca and her mum never saw eye to eye on anything, including me. Although I suppose you could say Becca came to agree with her mother’s assessment,” he added ruefully, “but I don’t think that made them any closer. Becca never appreciated I told you so’s.

“And Marianne—oh, God, when Marianne finds out Becca left things to me, she’s not going to like that at all.”

It occurred to Kincaid that Freddie Atterton seemed very much alone. “What about your family? Have you been in touch with them? Is there anyone who could stay with you for a bit?”

“I’ve rung my mum. I didn’t want her to find out about Becca from the news. She offered to come, but I think that would be worse than being on my own. My mum can be—a bit much.”

“And your father?”

Freddie’s mouth twisted. “He told Mum to tell me he was sorry.”

“Right.” Obviously there was not much support forthcoming from that quarter. Kincaid wondered what had become of the FLO whom Cullen had assigned to Atterton. “Freddie, has a family liaison officer from the Met been to see you or been in touch?”

Freddie shook his head. “No.”

Had the chief—or whoever was calling the shots at the Yard—conveniently misplaced the FLO? Family liaison officers provided support, advocacy, and ongoing information on the progress of an investigation to family members of victims. And while they weren’t meant to be nannies, the FLO, male or female, often helped the victim’s loved ones cope with grieving, deal with arrangements, and in high-profile cases, acted as a buffer between the family and the media.

Freddie Atterton might have been divorced from Rebecca Meredith, but it seemed he was the one most in need of aid. But he was also—at least according to Chief Superintendent Childs—the most obvious suspect, and while the FLOs’ job was to provide support for the family, they were also police officers. They sometimes learned things that implicated the family in a crime, in which case they were duty-bound to report it. It was a difficult job, rife with conflicts of interest for the officer, but in Atterton’s case Kincaid thought an FLO might be particularly useful.

For the moment, however, he had other agendas to follow. “Becca’s mother—is it Mrs. Meredith?” he asked. When Freddie nodded, Kincaid went on. “We’ll need Mrs. Meredith’s contact information.” They would also be checking Atterton’s phone records, but Kincaid didn’t mention that. He wanted to see if there was any collusion between Freddie and his former mother-in-law before Freddie knew he had no room to wiggle.

“But why?” asked Freddie. “I don’t understand. Why do you care what I was doing last night?”

“Because someone tried to murder one of the search and rescue volunteers who found Becca’s body.”

“Murder?” Freddie’s knuckles turned white as he clutched his empty glass to his chest. “But—why would someone do that?”

Kincaid leaned forward and met Freddie Atterton’s frightened blue eyes. “It struck us that a jealous ex- husband might have had a very good reason. He was Becca’s lover.”

Freddie simply stared at Kincaid, his face wiped blank of all expression. After a moment, he glanced at Doug, as if for confirmation and asked, “Lover?” His voice shook.

Doug nodded. “His name is Kieran Connolly. Former army medic. Rower. He fixes boats, and he and his dog, a Labrador retriever, were part of the team at the weir.” He studied Freddie. “But then maybe you already know all that.”

“No. No, I’d no idea. I saw him. I saw him that morning. A tall, dark-haired guy with a black dog.” Freddie shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite take it in. “Is he—you said someone tried to kill him. Is he okay? What happened to him?”

Kincaid thought that if Freddie were really as surprised as he seemed by the idea of Becca having had a lover, his concern was commendable. “He’s all right except for a gash in the head. But his boatshed isn’t. Someone tried to burn it down and made a pretty good job of it.”

“And he and Becca . . . I never imagined she’d . . .” Freddie laughed. “That’s stupid, I know. She had more than enough reason to have an affair when we were married. And she certainly had every right to—to sleep with whoever she wanted after we were divorced. But I suppose I thought she would have told me . . .”

Looking at Freddie, and thinking about his interview with Kieran last night at Tavie’s, Kincaid realized that the two men were physically very similar. Tall, dark-haired, slender, rower’s physique . . . Was that why Becca had been attracted to Kieran? And were there other similar qualities that were less evident? He suspected that she’d been