Nocturne with Bonus Material (3 page)

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.

Perhaps he should rethink what he'd said to Becca. But first, Mr. Craig.

Angus Craig, however, failed to materialize.

Freddie had leapt from the Audi, popping open his umbrella with the speed of a conjurer, then squelched across the car park to the haven of Leander's lobby. Lily, the duty manager, had brought him a towel from the crew quarters, then seated him at his favorite table in the window of the first-floor dining room.

“The crew won't be going out this morning,” he said, looking out at the curtains of rain sweeping across the river. This was rough weather, even for Leander's crew, who prided themselves on their fortitude—although anyone who had rowed in an Oxford or Cambridge Blue Boat could tell them a thing or two about weather . . . and fortitude.

Freddie's boat had almost been swamped one year in the Boat Race, in conditions like this. An unpleasant experience, to say the least, and a dangerous one.

“You've got someone joining you?” asked Lily as she poured him coffee.

“Yes.” Freddie glanced at his watch again. “But he's late.”

“Some of the staff haven't made it in,” said Lily. “Chef says there's a pileup on the Marlow Road.”

“That probably explains it.” Freddie summoned a smile for her. She was a pretty girl, neat in her Leander uniform of navy skirt and pale pink shirt, her honey-brown hair pulled back in a knot. A few years earlier he'd have fancied her, but he'd learned from his mistakes since then. Now he was wiser and wearier. “Thanks, Lily. I'll give him a bit longer before I order.”

She left him, and he sipped his coffee, idly watching the few other diners. This early in the week and this time of year, he doubted there were many overnight guests in the club's dozen rooms, and the weather had probably discouraged most of the local members who normally came to the club for breakfast. The food was exceptionally good and surprisingly reasonably priced.

The chef would have his hands full, regardless of the slow custom in the dining room. He was also responsible for feeding the voracious appetites of the young crew, who ate in their own quarters. Rowers were always starving, hunger as ingrained as breathing.

At half past eight, well into his second cup of coffee and beginning to feel desperate for a smoke, Freddie rang Angus Craig's number and got voice mail.

At a quarter to nine, he ordered his usual breakfast of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, but found he'd lost his appetite. Pushing the eggs aside and buttering toast instead, he realized the rain had eased. He could see across the river now, although the watery gray vista of shops and rooftops on the opposite bank might as well have been Venice. But perhaps the traffic was moving again. He'd give Craig another few minutes.

The sound of voices in reception made him look round. It wasn't the big, sandy-haired Craig, however, but Milo Jachym, the women's coach, having a word with Lily. He was dressed in rain gear, and had a purposeful set to his small, sturdy frame.

“Milo,” Freddie called, standing and crossing the dining room. “Are you going out?”

“Thinking about it. We might have an hour before the next squall line moves through.” Zipping his anorak, Milo looked out of the reception doors. Following his gaze, Freddie saw that a few patches of blue were breaking through the gray sky to the west. Milo added, “I'd like to get them off the ergs and onto the water, even if it's a short workout. Otherwise they'll be moaning the rest of the day.”

“Can't blame them. Bloody ergs.” All rowers hated the ergometers, the machines that were used to simulate rowing and to measure a rower's strength. Workouts on the ergs were physically grueling without any of the pleasure that came from moving a boat through the water. The only good thing that could be said for an erg workout was that it was mindless—you could drift into a pain-filled mental free fall without ramming your boat into something and risking life and limb.

Milo grinned. “Never heard that one before.” He turned back towards the crew quarters. “I'd better get them out while it lasts.”

Freddie stopped him with a touch on the arm. “Milo, did you have a chance to speak to Becca? I was hoping you might have been able to talk some sense into her.”

“Well, I talked to her, but not sense.” Frowning, he studied Freddie. “I think you're fighting a losing battle there. You might as well give in gracefully. And why are you so sure she can't win?”

“You think she can?” Freddie asked, surprised.

“There's no woman in this crew”—he nodded towards the crew quarters—“or any other I've seen in the last year that could out-row Rebecca at her best.”

“But she's—”

“Thirty-five? So?”

“Yeah, I know, I know. And she'd kill me if she heard me say that.” He imitated Becca at her most pedantic.
“Redgrave was thirty-eight, Pinsent, thirty-four, Williams, thirty-two . . . And Katherine Grainger won silver at thirty-three . . .”
Freddie shrugged. “But they had medals behind them. She doesn't.”

“She has the same capacity for crucifying herself. Which is what it takes. As you very well know.”

“Okay,” Freddie admitted. “Maybe you're right. In which case, maybe I'd better apologize. But she won't return my calls. When did you talk to her?”

“Yesterday. About half past four. She was taking a boat out. She said she'd rack it herself when she came in.” Milo frowned. “But come to think of it, I don't remember seeing it when I went out to check the river conditions this morning. Maybe she took it out at the cottage.”

“Not likely. She'd have to have used the neighbor's raft.” It was possible, though, Freddie thought. But, still, she'd have had to carry the shell through her neighbor's garden to put it in her own, and she had no ready place to store the boat. And why do that when she kept the Filippi racked here?

Unless she felt ill and couldn't make it all the way back to Leander? Though that didn't sound like Becca. The uneasiness that had been nagging him ratcheted up a notch. He checked his watch, decided Angus Craig could bugger himself. “I'm going to check the racks.”

“I'll come with you.” Milo paused, eyeing Freddie's navy jacket and blue-and-pink-striped Leander tie. “You'll get soaked, man. There's a spare anorak by the bar.”

But Freddie was already heading out the doors. The first-floor reception area opened onto an outside balcony with a staircase leading down from either side. Freddie took the left-hand flight, towards the river and the boatyard. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but by the time he reached the boat racks, he was impatiently pushing damp hair off his forehead.

The rack where Becca kept her Filippi was empty. “It's not here,” he said, although Milo could see that as well as he could.

“Maybe she put it in the shed for some reason. She has a key.” Milo pulled up his hood against the drizzle and turned towards the clubhouse. The boatshed was beneath the first-floor dining room, and on a fair day, with the crews going out, the big doors would stand wide open.

This morning, however, they entered through the smaller door on the right, and Milo flicked on the lights. The space was cavernous, dim in the corners. It smelled of wood and varnish, and faintly, of sweat and mildew. The thump of weights could be heard from the gym next door.

Ordinarily, Freddie found the shed inexplicably comforting, but now his stomach clenched as all he saw were the racks of gleaming, bright-yellow Empachers. These were the fours and eights rowed by the crew. Pink-bladed oars stood up in the racks at the rear of the long room like flags. There was no sign of the white Filippi with its distinctive blue stripe.

“Okay,” Milo said. “It's not here. We'll ask if anyone else has seen her.” He opened the door that led into the gym and called out, “Johnson!”

The promising young bowman of the coxless four appeared in the doorway in vest and shorts, toweling the sweat from his face. “We going out, Milo?” He nodded a greeting to Freddie.

“Not just yet,” answered Milo. “Steve, have you seen Becca Meredith?”

Johnson looked surprised. “Becca? No. Not since Sunday, on the river. She had a good row. Why?”

“She went out last night, and her boat's not back.”

“Have you tried ringing her?” Johnson asked with a casualness that Freddie found suddenly infuriating.

“Of course I've bloody tried ringing her.” He turned to Milo. “Look, I'm going to check the cottage.”

“Freddie, I think you're overreacting,” said Milo. “You know Becca has a mind of her own.”

“No one knows that better than me. But I don't like this, Milo. Call me if you hear anything.”

He went out the way he'd come in, rather than going through the crew quarters in the club. He walked round the lawn to the car park, unmindful now of his shoes or his damp jacket.

Maybe he
was
overreacting, he thought as he climbed back into the Audi. But he rang her mobile once more, and when the call went to voice mail, he clicked off and started the engine. She might chew him up one side and down the other for intruding, but he was going to see for himself.

Although it took a bit of maneuvering to get the Audi out of the deep, slushy ruts in the gravel, he eventually managed.

A remembered dialogue played in his head. From Becca,
Why can't you get a sensible car for once?

Because you can't sell expensive property if your prospect thinks you can't afford the best,
he always answered, but there were days he'd kill for four-wheel drive, and this was one of them.

Once out of the car park, he pulled onto the main road and turned immediately left into Remenham Lane. As he drove north, he could see the clouds building again in the western sky.

The redbrick cottage, surrounded by an overgrown garden, was set between the lane and the river. It had been Freddie's job to keep the grounds, which he had done with regularity if not much talent. Becca had simply let things go until the place had begun to resemble Sleeping Beauty's briar thicket.

Her battered black Nissan 4-4 sat in the drive. Becca had no interest in cars either, except as a means to pull a boat. If the Nissan wasn't mud-spattered, it was only because the rain had washed it off. Her trailer had been pulled up on the patch of lawn beside the drive, and the Filippi was not on it.