She looked towards Rashid and the SOCOs. Kincaid had told her nothing except that Denis Childs wanted him to have a look at what might be a suspicious death. “What’s happened here?” she asked, meaning Why did it need the intervention of a senior officer from the Met? From DI Singla’s expression, he couldn’t have agreed more. “Who’s the victim?”
It was Kincaid who answered. “DCI Rebecca Meredith. West London, Major Crimes.”
Gemma stared at him. A Met officer. A senior female Met officer. Not good. Not good at all.
Glancing at the shape on the ground between Rashid and the SOCOs, she caught a glimpse of neon yellow clothing, a tangle of dark, matted hair. “They pulled her out of the river? Possible suicide?”
“Not unless she decided to take a dive out of a rowing boat.” Rashid had come to stand beside them, giving Gemma a quick grin, and she saw that the slogan on the black T-shirt beneath his open jacket read PATHOLOGISTS HAVE MORE FUN.
“She was a rower?”
“She’s wearing rowing gear, and they”—Rashid nodded at the SAR handlers—“found her shell caught in the bank, about a mile upstream. I’d guess that’s where she went out of the boat.”
“Any signs of trauma?” Kincaid asked.
“Some possible contusions on the head, but I can’t tell you if the wounds are ante- or postmortem until I get her on the table.”
“I want to have a closer look in situ before you transport her,” Kincaid said, then turned to Gemma. “Do you—”
“I’ve got to get back.” She was suddenly very aware of time passing. “I’ve left the little ones with Kit, in case you’ve forgotten?”
“Sorry.” He gave an apologetic grimace. “I’ll ring you.” He touched her arm, moving her slightly aside. “Look, love, I’m sure this won’t take—”
She shook her head. The SAR handlers had come up to them, and she felt that their domestic discussion was uncomfortably public. “We’ll talk about it later.” The dogs’ tails were wagging, so she held out a hand for them to snuffle. The female handler, a small, blond woman who would have looked elfin if not for the gravity of her expression, gave her a tight smile.
The man was tall, dark-haired, his face drawn and pale. His Labrador watched him anxiously, brow furrowed in doggy concern.
“We’ve got a team securing the boat,” said the woman. “I’m Tavie, by the way. Tavie Larssen. Thames Valley Search and Rescue. This is Kieran Connolly.” She nodded towards her companion. He didn’t speak.
Kincaid glanced at the sky, and Gemma saw that the clouds were building again, blotting out what remained of the afternoon light. “I want to see where you found the boat, before it gets too dark,” he said, looking at Singla. “Inspector, if you could arrange—”
“I’m going with you.” It was the dark-haired handler, Kieran. His voice sounded stretched to breaking. “I want to see the boat.”
As they all turned to stare at him, his dog whined and licked his hand. “I’m a rower,” he said. “I can tell you what happened.”
Chapter Five
Crowning the Reach is James Wyatt’s wedding-cake folly (1771) on Temple Island, down by the start of the regatta course.
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney Coxless Four
Gemma heard Charlotte’s sobs as she came up the path towards the road. She quickened her steps, her chest tightening with a mother’s instinctive reaction to the sound of her child in distress.
When she rounded the corner, she saw Kit standing beside the Escort, holding Charlotte, who was kicking her heels against him as she howled. Toby sat in the car, looking mutinous.
“I’m sorry, Gemma,” called Kit. “I know you wanted me to keep them in the car, but I couldn’t stop her crying.” He bounced Charlotte on his hip, cajoling her. “See, I told you she’d come back. Gemma’s here.”
As Gemma reached them, Charlotte twisted in Kit’s grasp and flung herself at Gemma, arms outstretched. Gemma leapt to catch her before she went into free fall.
“Whoa, lovey. Let’s not have an aerial ballet,” Gemma said, tucking Charlotte’s damp face into her shoulder.
“You went ’way” came Charlotte’s muffled wail.
“Yes, I did. And I came back. See?” She held Charlotte away from her long enough to kiss her cheek, but then the child burrowed her face into Gemma’s neck again.
“I don’t want to stay in the car,” said Toby from the Escort’s half-open window. “Why does she get to come out and I don’t? Maybe I should cry, too.” He scrunched up his face.
“Don’t you dare.” Gemma stabbed a finger at him over Charlotte’s shoulder. “And don’t you dare get out of that car. We’re all going home. Now.”
“Dad, too?” asked Kit.
“No,” she said, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “He’s got to stay here for a bit, but I’m sure he’ll come as soon as he can.” Though truthfully, now that she knew what the suspicious death involved, she wasn’t sure at all.
She saw that there were now more uniformed officers on the scene. Traffic on the Marlow Road had come almost to a standstill as motorists slowed to a crawl, mesmerized by the spectacle of flashing lights and patrol cars. Bystanders were gathering as well, some coming down the side road that led to the nearby car park and Hambleden village. Uniform was going to have its hands full.
“Does that mean you won’t be going back to work?” Kit asked. She glanced at him, unsure if he was pleased or disappointed.
“Let’s not worry about that just yet. We’ll sort something out, okay?”
And she bloody well hoped she was right about that. Her boss, Mark Lamb, was expecting her back at Notting Hill next Monday. Excuses about child-care difficulties, no matter how valid, would not go down well.
Charlotte had stopped snuffling, but Toby was now hanging halfway out the car window and looked in immediate danger of falling on his head. “Toby, back in the car. And buckle up, please.”
She gave a last glance back towards the river, wondering what Duncan and Rashid might find and feeling a flare of frustration at being excluded. But just now she had to deal with the problems at hand.
“Kit, we need to get out of the way. Can you grab your things from the Astra, and the keys? You can ask one of the officers to keep them for your dad.” Still holding Charlotte, she reached in and popped open the Escort’s boot for Kit—she knew better than to put Charlotte in the car until the last possible moment.
As Kit tossed in his bag, then jogged over to the nearest constable, Gemma saw a flash of bright blue as a small car pulled out of the jam and into the only remaining space on the verge. It was a little Renault, a Clio, but it wasn’t until the driver’s-side door swung open that recognition clicked.
“Melody?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, boss.” Melody Talbot grinned. “I’m just playing chauffeur,” she added as the Clio’s passenger door opened and Doug Cullen climbed out.
Gemma’s pleasure at seeing Melody, whose company she’d missed since she’d been away from work, quickly vanished.
“Doug,” she said. “He called you. In fact, he called you first.”
Cullen had the grace to look abashed. “It was just in case this turned out to be something more than a false alarm. In on the ground floor and all that. Sorry if it’s buggered your holiday, Gemma.”
She glared at him, then relented with a reluctant sigh. Kincaid had only done what she’d have done in his place, and it certainly wasn’t Doug’s fault. “I think you’ll find he wants you straightaway.” She gestured towards the path. “I hope you don’t have a problem with water.”
“Not unless I’m in it,” Doug answered, sounding relieved.
Gemma thought of the huddled form, pulled from the tangle of flotsam in the river, and shuddered. She must have inadvertently squeezed Charlotte, who said, “Ow,” and wriggled down from Gemma’s arms. “Want to see Melody,” she added, but stayed lean
ing against Gemma’s leg. Charlotte was very definite about the people she liked, and Melody was one of them, but she still suffered from attacks of shyness.
Melody knelt so that she was on Charlotte’s level. “Hi, sweetheart. Are you having an adventure?”
“I want to see the river,” Charlotte pronounced unexpectedly. “Kit says there’s a river. Is it big?”
Nonplussed, Gemma glanced at Melody, who mouthed, “Sorry.”
“We can’t see the river today, lovey,” Gemma told Charlotte. “It’s getting late, and the dogs must be missing us dreadfully at home.”
Melody stood and gave Charlotte’s curls a ruffle. “You’ll have to visit Doug in Putney.” She gave Cullen a sly glance and got a frown in return, making Gemma wonder what she had missed.
“I’d better get down there,” said Doug. “Thanks for the lift, Melody.” He gave them an awkward little wave and disappeared down the path.
Gemma turned back to Melody. “What—”
“Where’s Doug going?” piped up Charlotte. “Don’t want Doug to go.”
“Mummy,” whined Toby, “I want to get out. Everyone else is out.”
Gemma rolled her eyes at Melody. “We really have got to go. Nuclear meltdown approaching.” Suddenly disheartened by the idea of arriving home on her own with three disappointed children, she added, “Why don’t you come to the house when we get back to London, if you’re not doing anything? We’ll get pizza or something. Have a good natter.”
Melody smiled. “Deal. I’ll bring the wine.”
Kincaid had taken a few moments to fill in Cullen, to have another word with Rashid, and to work out a strategic plan.
When the SAR handler, Kieran, had insisted on going with them to see the rowing shell, his teammate, Tavie, had chimed in that as team leader she was needed on scene as well. It was her job to tell the team watching the boat to stand down, once the police had the area secured.
But the dog handlers had left their cars on the Berks side of the river, halfway between Leander and the weir. With the daylight fading, there wasn’t time for them to walk back, pick up their cars, and drive round through Henley to the site on the Bucks bank where the shell had been found.
DI Singla, however, had looked so horrified at the suggestion that the handlers and dogs ride with him that Kincaid had jumped in. “Ride with me. I’ve plenty of room.”
“Thanks,” replied Tavie. “We’ll get a lift back round the other side once we’re finished.” Leaving Rashid and the SOCOs to deal with the removal of the body to the mortuary van, the others traversed the walkway back across the river, single file. Bringing up the rear, Kincaid felt a bit like the tenth Indian, but he was impressed by the dogs’ easy nonchalance as they crossed over the rushing water of the weir.
When they reached the verge, Cullen looked askance at the Astra. “This is yours? Since when?”
“Shut it,” Kincaid said cheerfully. “It was a gift from my dad. And already useful. You even get to ride in the front.”
Tavie, however, glanced at the car with approval. “Great. We’ll put the dogs in the storage area. This is Tosh, by the way,” she added, reaching down to stroke the German shepherd’s head. “And this is Finn.” She gestured towards the Lab as Kincaid opened the rear hatch. “Kieran, can you—”
“Oh, right.” The dark-haired handler led his dog round to the back of the Astra, and the Lab jumped in on command, as did Tavie’s German shepherd. But the man seemed dazed, and Kincaid had noticed an edge in Tavie’s voice when she spoke to him. There was definitely some tension between the two.
“Just as well you won’t have doggie breath down your necks,” Tavie said as she and Kieran got into the rear seat. “Although it’s not far. Do you know the way?”
“Only that it must be back towards Henley.”
“I’ll direct you, then, but”—she glanced dubiously at Doug in his suit and light overcoat—“it’s a good walk from where we’ll have to leave the car.”
Kincaid suppressed a grin. He’d drawn the lucky straw that day, it seemed, having dressed for sloshing in mud puddles with the children. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”
He motioned for Singla to follow them in his own car, then turned left towards Henley when the constable controlling the traffic cleared an opening for them.
Kincaid caught intermittent glimpses of the river, then the road moved away from the water as it ran through a cluster of buildings that Tavie identified as the village of Greenlands. After that there were plowed fields to the right and tree-dotted meadows to the left. Soon, Tavie directed him to turn into what looked like a drive leading to a private estate. Two serviceable utility vehicles were parked just beyond the open gate, as was a Thames Valley panda car. All were unoccupied.
“This is the closest access,” Tavie explained. “We’ll have to cross the meadows on foot.”
Cullen looked down at his shoes and muttered, “Bugger.”
Kieran was out of the car before Kincaid had even popped the hatch on the storage area. Within seconds, he had his dog on the ground and had started across the field at an oblique angle to the river. He looked back at them impatiently. “We’ve got to hurry. The light’s going.”
“Can’t we stay on the track?” asked Cullen.
“No.” Pointing, Tavie added, “We’ve got to cross this field, and the next. You can come in from the other side of Temple Island, but that’s even farther, and wouldn’t be any drier.” She snapped the lead on her dog and started after Kieran.
As soon as Kincaid felt the soft, tussocky grass squish beneath his trainers, he felt some sympathy for Cullen—and for DI Singla, who was no better prepared. But Kieran had been right about the light. The hedgerow in the distance, and the tree line beyond that, were becoming gray-green blurs on a gray horizon.
Although the dogs hadn’t been given a command to search, they were eager, seeming to sense that they were engaged in work of some kind. Tavie and Kieran kept up with them at a steady trot, while the others straggled out at intervals, this time with Singla bringing up the rear.
What had looked like a hedgerow from a distance turned out to be an inlet snaking in from the river, which they crossed by a single-planked footbridge. By the time they’d crossed the second field, Kincaid’s feet were soaked and he was beginning to sweat, despite the chill in the air. Ahead lay the heavy belt of vegetation he had seen from the lane. They’d been following a faint track through the grass, but when the dogs and handlers reached the trees, they veered towards the river and plunged directly into the dense thicket.
Kincaid heard dogs bark, and an answering chorus. Then, as he pushed his way through branches, snagging his anorak, he heard human voices as well. As Cullen and Singla crashed along behind him, he pushed through into a small clearing right on the river’s edge.
Tavie stood with two uniformed constables and a man and a woman who wore dark Thames Valley Search and Rescue uniforms. Tosh, her German shepherd, was nosing greetings with a springer spaniel and a golden retriever, both of whom wore the distinctive orange SAR vests.
Kieran, with Finn, had gone straight to the water’s edge.
Tavie motioned to Kincaid. “Superintendent, this is Scott and Sarah. And Bumps and Meg,” she added, giving the spaniel and the retriever affectionate pats. “They found the boat.”
DI Singla was murmuring to the uniformed officers, but Kincaid looked at Kieran, who had knelt, his body obscuring the object of his attention. Kieran had dropped Finn’s lead, but the dog sat beside him, watching his master with what Kincaid could have sworn was a furrowed brow.
Walking over, Kincaid hunkered down until his shoulder was almost touching Kieran’s.
“It’s not a boat,” said Kieran, his voice trembling. “I told them before. It’s a Filippi. A racing shell.”
Kincaid gazed at the sleek lines of the shell. The Filippi was white, with a fine blue line running its length, and it seemed impossibly long and slender, like a sliver of light. A little water wa
s still pooled beneath the seat and runners. “Sort of like calling a Thoroughbred a pony?” he suggested quietly.
Kieran nodded, and some of the tension seemed to go out of his shoulders.
A light nylon rope stretched from one of the shell’s riggers to a sturdy sapling near the bank. One oar lay nearby.
“We had to turn it over,” said Scott, coming to stand beside them. “The boat. To make sure she wasn’t”—he glanced uneasily at Kieran—“there wasn’t anyone trapped underneath. But we didn’t want to pull it out of the water until the police had seen it.”
“And the other oar? Was it missing when you found the boat?” Kincaid asked, resisting the temptation to examine the underside of the hull. He’d better leave it for forensics.
“Yeah,” said Scott, “it was missing, and I had to unfasten that one in order to flip the bloody thing. Got soaked.”
“How easy is it to flip a single shell like this?”
It was Cullen who answered. “Happens all the time. You catch a crab—”
“Not to her, it didn’t,” Kieran said, his voice fierce. “Not on a calm evening, not here.” He looked at Kincaid for the first time since they had reached the bank. “You don’t understand. She was an elite rower. Not some amateur out for a Sunday paddle.”
“You knew her,” Kincaid said with sudden realization. Behind him, Tavie shifted uncomfortably.
“Everyone knew her,” Kieran went on. “Rowers, I mean. She was—she could have been—one of the best in the world. And she trained on the reach every day.”
Kincaid gazed out at the Thames, its surface a silvery shimmer. Scattered lights had begun to twinkle in the dusk, but they were distant, and this spot felt as isolated as the moon. Mist rose from the water like wraiths.
“So,” he said slowly, “what if she fell ill? Fainted, even? There’d have been no one to help her.”
“Sudden death.” The reply, unexpectedly, was Cullen’s. “It happens to rowers sometimes. It’s called sudden death.”
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