No Mark Upon Her Read Free Page B

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.
    Just as Freddie opened the Audi’s door, thunder
clapped and the sky opened up. He sprinted for the cottage, sliding into the
porch as if he’d just made a wicket and shaking the water