No Mark upon Her

by Deborah Crombie

  No Mark Upon Her

  Deborah Crombie

  Dedication

  For David Thompson, 1971–2010,

  who wanted me to finish the book

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Deborah Crombie

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  The art of sculling is like any other art. It is perfected only with constant practice so that each movement is graceful and is done correctly without thinking about it.

  —George Pocock

  Notes on the Sculling Stroke as Performed by Professional Scullers on the Thames River, England

  A glance at the sky made her swear aloud. It was later than she’d thought, darker than she’d realized. Since the clocks had moved back, night seemed to fall like a bludgeon, and there was a heavy wall of cloud moving in from the west, presaging a storm.

  Heart thumping, she moved across the cottage’s shadowy garden and through the gate that led out onto the Thames Path. Tendrils of mist were beginning to rise from the water. The river had a particular smell in the evenings, damp and alive and somehow primeval. The gunmetal surface of the water looked placid as a pond, but she knew that for an illusion. The current, swift here as the river made its way towards the roar of the weir below Hambleden Mill, was a treacherous trap for the unwary or the overconfident.

  Breaking into a jog, Becca turned upriver, towards Henley, and saw that Henley Bridge was already lit. Her time was running out. “Bugger,” she whispered, and pumped up her pace.

  She was sweating by the time she reached Leander, the most renowned of rowing clubs, tucked into the Remenham side of Henley Bridge. Lights had begun to come on in the dining room upstairs, but the yard was twilit and empty, the boatshed doors closed. The crew would be doing their last training session of the day in the gym, accompanied by the coaches, and that suited Becca just fine.

  Opening the small gate into the yard, she went to the boatshed and unlocked the doors. Although her boat was up on an outside rack, she needed access to her oars, which were stored inside. She flicked on the lights, then stood for a moment, gazing at the gleaming yellow Empachers, the German-made boats used by most of the rowing eights. The shells rested one atop another, upside down, long, slender, and impossibly graceful. The sight of them pierced her like an arrow.

  But they were not for her. She’d never been suited for team rowing, even at university when she had rowed in the women’s eight. A gawky fresher, she’d been recruited by her college’s boat club. All the boat clubs trawled for innocent freshmen, but they’d been particularly persistent in their pursuit of her. They had seen something besides her height and long limbs—obvious prerequisites for a rower. Perhaps, even then, they’d spotted the glint of obsession in her eyes.

  Now, no team would be daft enough to take her on, no matter how good she had once been.

  The thump of weights came from the gym next door, punctuated by the occasional voice. She didn’t want to speak to anyone—it would cost her valuable time. Hurrying to the back of the shed, she picked out her own oars from the rack at the rear. The rectangular tips were painted the same Leander pink as her hat.

  “Becca.”

  She turned, startled, knocking the oars against the rack. “Milo. I thought you were in with the crew.”

  “I saw the light come on in the shed.” Milo Jachym was small and balding, with a bristle of graying hair still shading the scalp above his ears. He had been a renowned coxswain in his rowing days, and he had also once been Becca’s coach. “You’re going out.” It was a statement rather than a question, and his tone matched his scowl. “You can’t keep this up with the clocks going back, Becca. Everyone else has been in for an hour.”

  “I like having the water to myself.” She smiled at him. “I’ll be fine, Milo. Help me get the boat down, will you?”

  He followed her out, picking up two folding slings from just inside the boatshed doors. Becca took her oars through the gate and laid them carefully beside the launch raft, then walked back into the yard, where Milo had set up the trestles beside one of the freestanding boat racks. Her white and blue Filippi rested above two double sculls, and it took all of Milo’s reach to unstrap and lift the bow as she took the stern.

  Together they lifted the shell free and lowered it right side up into the waiting cradle. As Becca checked the rigging, she said, “You told Freddie.”

  Milo shrugged. “Was it a state secret, then, your rowing?”

  “I see you haven’t lost your talent for sarcasm,” she countered, although for Milo, who used sarcasm the way other coaches might use a battering ram, the comment had been mild enough.

  “He was concerned, and I can’t say I blame him. You can’t keep on this way. Not,” he added before she could draw breath for a heated protest, “if you want a chance of a place in the semis, much less at winning.”

  “What?” Glancing up in surprise, she saw that he was no longer frowning, but regarding her speculatively.

  “In spite of what everyone says,” Milo went on, “I think it’s possible that you can win in the trials, maybe even in the Games. You were one of the best rowers I’ve ever seen, once. It wouldn’t be the first time a rower your age has made a comeback. But you can’t keep up this half-arsed business. Rowing after work and on weekends, doing weights and the erg in your cottage—oh, I know about that. Did you think a few beers would buy you silence in a place this incestuous?” He grinned, then sobered. “You’re going to have to make a decision, Becca. If you’re going to do this, you’ll have to give up everything else. It will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but I think you’re just bloody-minded enough to succeed.”

  It was the first time that anyone had given her the least bit of encouragement, and from Milo it meant more than from anyone else. Her throat tight, she managed to say, “I’ll—I’ll think about it.” Then she nodded at the shell, and together they hefted the boat above their heads, maneuvering it through the narrow gate, and gently set it into the water beside the launch raft.

  She slipped off her shoes, tossing them to one side of the raft. Then she retrieved her oars, and in one fluid movement she balanced them across the center of the shell while lowering herself into the sliding seat.

  The shell rocked precariously as it took her weight. The movement reminded her, as it always did, that she sat backwards on a sliver of carbon fiber narrower than her body, inches above the water, and that only her skill and determination kept her fragile craft from the river’s dark grasp.

  But fear was good. It made her strong and careful. She slipped the oars into the locks and tightened the gates. Then, with the bowside oar resting on the raft and the strokeside oar balanced flat on the water, she slipped her feet into the trainers attached to the footboard and closed the Velcro fasteners.

  “I’ll wait for you,” offe
red Milo. “Help you put the boat up.”

  Becca shook her head. “I can manage. I’ve got my key.” She felt the slight weight of the lanyard against her chest. “But, Milo . . .” She hesitated. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll leave the lights on, then,” he said as she pushed away from the raft. “Have a good row.”

  But she was moving now, letting the current take the shell out into the river’s center, and his words barely registered.

  The world seemed to fall away as she settled into a warm-up rhythm, working the kinks out of her shoulders and the stiffness from her thighs. The wind bathed her face as it blew steadily downriver. Between the wind and the current, she would have the advantage—at least until she made the turn round Temple Island, and then she would have both wind and current against her as she rowed back upriver.

  Her strokes grew longer, deeper, as she watched the arched golden lights of Henley Bridge recede in the distance. She was moving backwards, as rowers did, judging the river by instinct, and she might have been moving backwards in time as well. For an instant she was the girl who had seen an Olympic gold medal within her reach. The girl who had let it slip away.

  Frowning, Becca pulled herself back into the present. She concentrated on her stroke, feeling the sweat beginning to form on the back of her neck, between her breasts. She was not that girl. That had been fourteen years ago, in a different world. Today she was a different person, connected to that young Rebecca only by muscle memory and the feel of the oars in her hands. Now she knew the cost of failure.

  And she knew Milo was right. She was going to have to make a decision, and soon. Complete commitment to racing would mean taking leave from the job to train full-time. She could quit outright. Or she could take the leave of absence the Met had offered her.

  But that would leave unfinished business.

  The thought brought a surge of anger so intense that she instinctively drove the oars into the water, pushing her stroke up to racing rate. The riggers creaked as the boat took the strain. Water flew from the oars on the recovery, splashing droplets across her face.

  She was moving now, listening to the whoosh and thunk as the oars went in, followed by an instant of absolute silence as they came out of the water and the boat plunged forward like a living thing. It was perfect rhythm, this, it was music. The boat was singing, and she was a part of it, lifting from the water like a bird.

  Henley receded, a glowing dot in the distance. Now she could really see the sky, rose-gold on the horizon, fading to mauve. Clouds, still visible against the dark dome above, seemed to be flying, matching her stroke for stroke. A few cottages—hers somewhere among them—and clumps of trees on the Berkshire bank flew by in a dark blur.

  Ten strokes. Her thighs were burning.

  Ten more, focusing on the count, on getting her oars out of the water cleanly.

  Ten more, shoulders on fire now.

  And one more ten, with all the power she could summon, the boat leaping from the water, her throat searing as she took great gulps of air.

  Then, a pale flash on her right, the ornamental folly on Temple Island. This shard of land midriver, once a part of Fawley Court, now served as the starting point for the Henley Royal Regatta. Once past the island she’d have to turn back, or she’d lose the last glimmer of light and would truly be rowing blind before she reached Leander again.

  She eased up on the stroke, letting her lungs fill, easing her cramping muscles. As she passed the downriver tip of the island, she stabilized the boat, oars resting lightly on the surface of the water.

  Suddenly, she realized that her earlier anger had passed and she was filled with a deep and calm certainty.

  She would race. She would not let this last chance pass her by. And if it meant leaving the Met, she would leave, but she would not be fobbed off quietly with a token gold watch and more hollow promises. She would see justice done, whatever the means, for herself and the others like her.

  The swift current was carrying her downstream, towards the lock and the weir. A flock of rooks rose with a clatter from the trees on the Buckinghamshire bank. As she watched them wheel in a dark ballet, Becca let the boat swing round. When the birds disappeared from her field of view, she was facing downriver. The wind felt fiercer now. It bit at the back of her neck, and when she took her first full stroke, the current’s resistance challenged her.

  Rowing downriver, she’d stayed near the center, taking advantage of the swiftness of the current. Now, she eased in towards the Bucks side, where the current was less brutal, the upriver journey less arduous. Anyone who had ever rowed out of Leander knew every twist and turn and wind shadow along the Bucks bank, and most, like Becca, could row it in their dreams.

  But the darkness seemed deeper, facing away from the faint illumination cast by the town, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. In her brief pause the sweat on her body had begun to chill.

  Becca slid forward, squaring her oars, then put all the strength of shoulders and legs into the drive. She kept it up, stroke after stroke, counting to herself—the sculler’s litany—judging her progress by occasional quick glances at the shoreline.

  She reached the upriver end of Temple Island, saw again the pale wedding-cake shape of the folly, and slowly, slowly, the dim shapes of familiar landmarks moved by. If before she had had the sensation of slipping backwards in time, now she felt suspended, as if only her own efforts could inch the clock forward.

  She pulled harder, again and again, lost in the rhythm of the stroke. It was only in the instant of calm following a perfect drive that she heard the floundering splash. The boat creaked as she stopped, as if it were resisting the cessation of forward motion.

  The sound had been close, and too loud for a diving bird. A large animal slipping in from the bank, perhaps?

  She tasted salt, realized her nose was running from the cold and wind. Shifting her grip on her oars into one hand, she swiped at her lip with her other sleeve. The boat rocked slightly as she twisted to look upriver and she quickly grasped the oars in both hands again. Then she peered at the bank, but the shadows beneath the trees had deepened to impenetrable ink.

  Shrugging, she rotated her oars, putting the sound down to her imagination. But as she slid up to the catch, she heard a cry. The voice was unmistakably human, oddly familiar, and she could have sworn it had called her name.

  Chapter Two

  In the single shell I found my instrument . . .

  —Sara Hall

  Drawn to the Rhythm

  Freddie Atterton swiped his member’s tag over the scanner at the entrance to the Leander car park, then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for the gate bar to rise. The Audi’s wipers swished, all but useless at moving the sheets of water streaming across the windscreen. Peering forward as the bar lifted, he eased out the clutch and felt the gravel shift under the car’s tires as he inched forward.

  “Sodding rain,” he muttered as he pulled into the nearest available space. The car park was fast turning into a bog. He’d be lucky if he could get the car out again. Nor was there any way he was getting from the car to the clubhouse without ruining his hand-stitched Italian leather shoes, or keeping his jacket from getting soaked before he could get his umbrella up.

  Killing the engine, he glanced at his watch—five minutes to eight. There wasn’t time to wait it out. He didn’t want to dash dripping into the club and find his prospective investor there before him. This breakfast meeting was too important to start it off looking like a drowned—and harried—rat.

  And he’d meant to be better informed. Damn Becca for not ringing him back last night. He’d tried her again this morning, but she still hadn’t picked up on either phone.

  With more than a decade as an officer in the Metropolitan Police, Becca knew almost everyone who was anyone in the force. Freddie had thought she might be able to give him some tips on his prospect, who was a recently retired Met officer. Not that one expected run-of-the-mill Metropolitan
Police officers to be flush enough to sink money into what Freddie admitted was a still slightly sketchy property deal.

  But this bloke, Angus Craig, had been a deputy assistant commissioner, and he lived in a nearby village that was definitely on the poncey end of the spectrum. Freddie had run into him over drinks at a local club the previous week, and when they’d got chatting, Craig had said he liked the idea of putting his money into something he could keep an eye on. Freddie had hoped that Becca could tell him whether or not Craig was a serious player.

  And God help Freddie if not. He’d bought the run-down farm and outbuildings on the Thames below Remenham, intending to turn the place into upmarket flats—tasteful country living with city luxury and a river view. But then the market had dived, and now he was overextended and couldn’t get the damned thing off the ground.

  He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and checked it once more, just in case he’d missed a call, but there was no message light. His irritation inched over into vague worry. Stubborn Becca might be, but they’d managed to keep up an odd sort of friendship after the divorce, and if nothing else, he’d expected her to ring him to tell him to mind his own business.

  Maybe he had been out of line, telling her off about the rowing. But he couldn’t believe she really meant to put her career as a detective chief inspector in jeopardy for a pipe dream of an Olympic gold medal that any sane person would have given up years ago. He’d felt the siren call of rowing, too, and God knew he’d been competitive, but at some point you realized you had to let it go and get on with real life. As he had.

  With a sudden and uncomfortable twinge, he wondered if he’d have let it go so easily if he’d been as good as she was. And just how successful had he been at real life? He pushed that nagging little thought aside. Things would get better; they always did.