both rubs round the ears. To Kieran, he added, “You forgot the biscuits.”
“Oh, so I did.” Kieran opened the tin on the table by the door, and the dogs sat immediately. “You have dogs?” Kieran asked, looking at him for the first time as if he might be a person as well as a policeman.
“A cocker spaniel. And our son has a terrier.”
“Good dogs, cockers,” said Kieran. “Great at drugs and explosives work. Amazing energy, those little guys.”
“Tell me about it.”
Having finished their biscuits, the dogs went to their beds, now side by side in front of the fire. Tavie’s sitting room, Kincaid saw, no longer looked as though it belonged in a doll’s house. Aside from the two large dogs and one large man, the floor was scattered with dog toys, the tables held empty cups and scattered papers, and several articles of male clothing were draped haphazardly over the sofa and chairs.
Kieran removed a pair of jeans from the sofa back and gestured Kincaid to a seat. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “Tavie’s dryer’s on the blink. She’s borrowed a few things for me from her mates at work, but all my stuff needed washing.”
“Is she here?”
“No. She’s on rota today.” Kieran sat on the chair, his large hands clasped on his knees. “About the shed. Is it—can I—I’d like to go home.”
It seemed to Kincaid that in spite of his assertion, Kieran seemed less anxious about the shed than he had been after the fire on Wednesday night. Understandable, certainly, as he’d been shocked, injured, and frightened. But today he also seemed to be moving round Tavie’s little house more easily, as if he was beginning to feel comfortable in the space.
“I see you two haven’t killed each other yet,” Kincaid said.
“Not yet. Although it’s been a near thing.” There was a glint of wry humor in Kieran’s eyes. “But still, I need to see if—if there’s anything left—”
“DI Singla said the arson team has cleared your boatshed as of this morning. They’ve finished gathering evidence, and they’ve pronounced the shed messy but safe.”
“Oh.” Having been granted his wish, Kieran seemed at a loss. “Great.”
“I went through it yesterday. It’s not as bad as you might think, but you’ll have a job in store.”
Nodding, Kieran reached up as if to scratch his forehead, then appeared to think better of it and dropped his hand back to his lap. “Tavie keeps telling me that things are replaceable, that I should be thankful I’m alive. And I suppose I know that, but everything I owned was in that shed. I could—” He shook his head, as if debating the wisdom of finishing his thought aloud. “Do you know who did this to me?” he asked instead. “Or why? Was it the man I saw by the river?”
“We don’t know yet. But about that place by the river,” Kincaid said, seeing his opening. “You were right. There was someone there, and he left physical evidence.” Kincaid sat forward, glancing at the dogs, both now stretched out on their sides and seemingly oblivious to the world. “It occurred to me—is it possible that the dogs could associate scent left in that spot with a particular person?”
Kieran frowned. “It’s been what, five days? And I’ve been there, not to mention your forensics team have been over it with a fine-tooth comb. Tavie’s the expert, but I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”
As if he knew they were talking about him, Finn gave a whuffled groan and raised his head.
“The dogs might react if they had some sort of emotional connection to the scent”—Kieran went on, without meeting Kincaid’s eyes—“like, um, a significant event, or if they recognized a person they already knew.”
Finn stood, yawning, then came over and settled at Kieran’s feet. “But they could just as easily be interested because that person had sausages for breakfast,” Kieran continued. “You’re fickle beasties, aren’t you?” he said to Finn, leaning over to stroke the dog’s head.
“Okay, thanks,” Kincaid said, disappointed. “It was a long shot, anyway.”
Kieran met his eyes then, his gaze clear and direct. “You think you know who did it.”
“I have no evidence,” Kincaid answered.
What he’d hoped was that if Melody and Gemma got an ID on Craig in the Jenny Hart case, the dogs might provide a strong enough link between Becca Meredith’s murder scene and Craig to justify a search warrant for Craig’s car and belongings.
He wanted Craig for Jenny Hart, but he wanted him for Becca Meredith even more.
“Look, Kieran,” he said, standing. “He’s still out there, and you’re still the only person who might have seen him on the river. Stay here for a while longer. And don’t go out on your own at night.”
When Kincaid reached the door, he turned back. “Oh, and by the way, that boat you were building? The one you were worried about? We had your next-door neighbor lock it in his shed.”
He said good-bye, without much assurance that Kieran would take his advice, but he couldn’t put everyone who’d been connected to Becca Meredith under lock and key for their own safety.
The day was warming as he walked back into Market Place. He stopped, checking his watch. It was only ten o’clock. It would be at least another two hours before he could expect to hear from Gemma. And he had no doubt that her report would be firsthand. In spite of his cautions, she was just as much a police officer as he was, and she would want to hear the witness statement herself.
In the meantime, he was bloody well going to find Freddie Atterton.
He tried the bar at the Hotel du Vin, even though it was early, just in case Freddie’s no- alcohol resolution had been short-lived, but without success.
Then he walked across the bridge to Leander. Not that he didn’t trust DC Bell’s thoroughness, but it was possible that she and Freddie could have come and gone at cross-purposes. Still no joy, however, although he spoke to the lovely Lily in reception, then checked the dining room, the bars, and the crew quarters.
After returning to reception and thanking Lily, an impulse led him to walk out the French doors and onto the small balcony that overlooked the river and the regatta meadows. The fields were empty now, the green sweep of grass marred only by the concrete stanchions that would support the enclosures come June.
Kincaid had never been to Henley Royal Regatta, but he’d seen photos and videos. He imagined the crowds, the marquees, the sun sparkling on the water, and all the rowers and racing shells going out from the starting rafts, a symphony of color and motion.
Would Becca have been among next year’s rowers, racing to prove she had what it took for the Olympics?
He heard the creak of the door behind him and turned to see Milo Jachym.
“Lily said you were looking for Freddie,” said Milo. “Is he all right?”
“He walked out of his flat last night and hasn’t come back. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“He rang me last night but I was in the gym. He didn’t leave a message, and he didn’t answer when I tried ringing back.” Milo frowned. “He didn’t take his car?”
“No.”
“He won’t have gone to his parents, then.” Milo shook his head and, like Kincaid, gazed out across the meadows. “I’d never have thought he’d take it so hard, Becca’s death. Freddie always seemed like one of those blessed few who would slide through life without a hiccough. He had everything—looks, connections, talent. But the charm’s grown thinner the last few years. It’s as if he’s had to make an effort to hold everything together.”
Studying the man beside him, Kincaid wondered if Milo Jachym had been jealous. He had the sense that nothing had come easily to Milo—this man had had to grab opportunities and hang on to them with a coxswain’s tenaciousness. And it was certainly possible that his relationship with Becca Meredith had been more complicated than that of coach and crew member. “You knew Freddie and Becca for a long time,” he said.
“Since they were both still at university. They had such promise, both of them. But there was a worm in it somewhere.” Milo sounded infinitely sad.
Shrugging, he straightened, the briskness back in full force. “And I’ve got a crew to get on the river for a second session. When you find Freddie, tell him to ring me.” He started down the stairs to the boatyard, then turned back to Kincaid. “Have you tried the cottage? That’s the one place Freddie might see as a last refuge.”
Kincaid considered going back for his car, which he’d left in the Greys Road car park near the police station. But he suspected that if he did, the incident room would suck him in like a magnet, and he still felt that invisibility was the better part of valor until he knew what they had on Craig.
He would walk to Remenham. He’d driven the distance, after all, and it hadn’t seemed that far.
