At least it didn’t sound as if Atterton had gone off on a bender, Kincaid thought. To Bell, he said, “Keep trying to reach him. You did the right thing, helping him out this afternoon and ringing me. But Freddie Atterton’s a grown man and we’ve no right to restrict his movements unless we’ve charged him with something.”
“We’re not going to, are we?” asked Bell. “Charge him, I mean.”
“The SOCOs found no evidence linking him to the scene of the murder, so at the moment, I doubt it.” He sounded more certain than he felt. “Was there anything else today?” he asked. “Anything you talked about that was out of the ordinary?”
There was silence while Imogen Bell thought. Then she said, “He kept asking about the boat, wanting to know when he could have it back. I told him I thought the SOCOs were almost finished with it. I hope that was okay.”
Kincaid frowned. “I don’t see why not—although he won’t have any legal right to the boat until the will has been processed.”
When he’d rung off, Gemma sat down across from him again and poured herself a bit of the Bordeaux. “Becca’s ex-husband’s gone missing, I take it?” she asked. “Do you think he’s all right?”
“He doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type,” Kincaid said. “And DC Bell, who was looking after him, said he kept asking about the Filippi, Becca’s racing shell. Why would he want to know when he could have the boat back if he was going to kill himself?”
“You don’t think—” Now it was Gemma who hesitated. “You don’t think he’s in any danger, do you?”
Kincaid thought of the measures Craig and Gaskill and their shadowy cronies were willing to take to keep secrets. “I hope not,” he said.
Kincaid didn’t sleep well. He lay, feeling the weight of Gemma’s leg against his, inhaling the scent of her lilac bath soap, and worrying about Freddie Atterton—and about Gemma—until well into the wee hours of the morning.
He must have dozed at last, but he woke again when the panes in the bedroom windows began to lighten almost imperceptibly with the coming dawn.
Carefully easing his feet from under Geordie, who slept stretched out across the foot of the bed, Kincaid got up, showered, and dressed. When he was ready, he bent and kissed the corner of Gemma’s mouth. “I’m going to Henley,” he whispered.
“What?” She opened sleepy eyes. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing. Shhh. Go back to sleep. I’ll ring you.”
He crept down the stairs, trying not to wake the children, and found that he was suddenly aware of the particular early-morning feel of the house. He imagined it as a quietly slumbering beast, waiting for its heart to wake—its exhalations rich with accumulated scents of tea and toast and dogs and the faint mist of children’s breath.
He was quite pleased with his fancy, and himself, when he reached the front door undetected. But then he heard the click of toenails on the floor tiles.
Turning, he saw that Geordie had followed him downstairs. The dog looked up at him, his tail wagging, his eyes filled with the soulful reproach only a cocker spaniel can achieve.
Kincaid squatted and rubbed his ears. “I can’t take you out just now,” he whispered. “Go back to bed.”
Geordie cocked his head, his tail wagging harder. Kincaid gave his head a last pat. “Nothing gets past you, does it, sport? Keep an eye on Gemma for me, that’s a good—”
He stood, staring at the dog. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
It was fully light by the time Kincaid reached Henley. As he passed over the bridge, he saw the rowing eights going out from Leander, like a many-legged flotilla. The morning was cold, clear, and still— perfect rowing weather, he assumed. But it wasn’t rowers he wanted to speak to at the moment.
His first stop was the incident room at Henley Police Station.
DI Singla was there, as was the unfortunately named DC Bean, but the industry of the past few days seemed to have dissipated and the room had a sleepy air. There was little new information for the team to work with, and nothing he could add. Yet.
He was about to ask for DC Bell when she came in, looking rumpled and bleary-eyed.
“Sir.” She nodded at him as she sank into a chair, cradling a plastic cup of coffee in her hands as if she needed its transitory warmth.
“Rough night?” he asked.
Imogen Bell blushed. “I was concerned about Mr. Atterton, sir. I watched the flat.”
Kincaid stared at her. “All night?”
“Yes, sir. From my car. I parked by the main gate.”
No wonder she looked as though she’d slept in her clothes—she had, or at least had spent the night in them. Kincaid was impressed, although he wasn’t sure if she had demonstrated the makings of a very good police officer or a very big crush. Possibly both.
“Commendable,” he said. “Did he come home?”
“No, sir.” She looked utterly dejected. “And he’s still not answering his mobile.”
DI Singla broke in. “We’ve confirmed Atterton’s overseas phone call to Mrs. Meredith on Wednesday evening, both from the phone records and by speaking to Mrs. Meredith. They talked for forty-two minutes. Atterton could not possibly have burned Kieran Connolly’s boatshed unless he has the ability to be in two places at once. Or he and his former mother-in-law are in cahoots,” Singla added thoughtfully. “I suppose he could have answered her call, then left the phone off the hook—”
“While he walked or drove to the place where he borrowed or stole a single scull, rowed to the island, tossed the Molotov cocktail, returned the boat, and made it back to the flat to hang up the phone, all in forty-two minutes?”
“I’ll admit it’s unlikely,” agreed Singla. “And I can’t imagine why Rebecca Meredith’s mother would have agreed to such a thing, unless she and Atterton knew the disposition of Rebecca’s will and planned to share the estate. As far as we’ve been able to ascertain, however, Mrs. Meredith has no need of her daughter’s money or property.”
“Not to mention that such a scenario is based on Freddie Atterton having killed Becca, and we know forensics found no corroborating evidence at the scene.”
“But what about Mr. Atterton?” said Bell. “Should we report him missing?”
Kincaid considered. He wished he had Cullen as a sounding board, but he’d asked Doug to stay behind in London in case Melody—and Gemma—needed backup. “Let’s give it a bit longer,” he told Bell. “Have you tried Leander?”
“Not since yesterday evening.”
“Why don’t you check with them again? I’ve someone I want to have a word with, then we’ll reconvene.” He started to turn away, but something was puzzling him. “DC Bell, did Freddie give you any reason why he’s so anxious to get the Filippi back?”
“He said . . .” She frowned, as if trying to recall the exact words. “He said it was the only thing he could fix.”
Having left Notting Hill without breakfast, Kincaid briefly considered picking up a cup of coffee from the station vending machine. But only briefly. He’d be walking right by Starbucks—not his favorite brew, but a huge improvement over brown slop in a polystyrene cup.
A few minutes later, armed with a paper cup from Starbucks, and having downed a muffin in two bites, he rang Tavie Larssen’s bell.
There was a chorus of wild barking, a man’s answering shout, then Kieran Connolly swung open the door. His forehead, which had just begun to bruise on Wednesday night, was now purple, but he’d removed the dressing, and Kincaid saw that he was indeed going to have a rakish Harry Potter scar slanting down to his eyebrow.
But his face brightened when he saw it was Kincaid. “Have you come about the shed?” he asked, blocking the still-barking German shepherd and Labrador with his body.
“Partly,” Kincaid said. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Kieran turned to the dogs. “Finn. Tosh. Quiet. Go lie down.”
The dogs obeyed the first command but not the second. They had to sniff Kincaid thoroughly as he entered the room, their doggy breath warm against his trouser legs. “You smell other pups, don’t you?” he said, giving them
