when he saw them, his lined face apprehensive.
“Mr. Jachym?” Kincaid asked before Lily could introduce him. “If we could have a word. We’re from the police.”
Lily left them then, but he was sure that anything they said could be heard from the service kitchen on the other side of the bar. The news would be all over the club in no time.
“I’ve been trying—”
“I know,” Kincaid interrupted. “Mr. Jachym, I understand you were the last person to see Rebecca Meredith?”
“I—” Jachym swallowed visibly. “As far as I know, yes. I told the other policeman, the Asian one.”
“You were Rebecca Meredith’s coach?”
“Not officially, no. Although I was once, many years ago. Please, what’s happened?”
“Mr. Jachym, sit down,” said Kincaid. Milo Jachym, who didn’t appear to be a man accustomed to taking orders, sat.
“May we?” Kincaid asked, and at Jachym’s nod, he and Cullen pulled up the nearest chairs. “Rebecca Meredith’s body was found this afternoon, below Hambleden Weir,” he said, knowing it was best to get it over quickly.
Jachym stared at them. “You’re certain?”
“One of the SAR team identified her. But we’ll need an official ID. Do you know who would be her next of kin?”
“Oh, God.” Jachym made a convulsive movement towards his empty coffee cup, but didn’t touch it. “No one’s told Freddie? He’s been frantic.”
“Freddie?” Kincaid asked, although he remembered the name from the initial missing persons report.
“Freddie Atterton. Becca’s ex-husband.”
“He was the one who reported her missing?”
“I—we—he came to me, this morning. He was worried about her, and I realized I hadn’t seen her shell on the rack in the yard. Look—can you tell me what happened?”
Cullen responded. “The SAR team found her Filippi caught on the Buckinghamshire bank, not far below Temple Island. It was overturned, and one oar was missing.”
“But—if she went in the water there, surely she could have swum to shore. Not that she’d have willingly left the boat . . .” Milo Jachym shook his head and scrubbed impatiently at the graying stubble on his chin. “I’ve been in this sport long enough to know that any rower can have an accident. But I never thought Becca—Freddie was right. I should have stopped her.”
“He didn’t want her to go out?”
“No. I was the one who told him she was training and he was furious. He thought it was foolish.”
“And was it?”
“No. At least I didn’t think so. She was a gold-medal contender when I first worked with her, after she finished university. But she was reckless. Age seemed to have tempered her a bit. I told her last night, before she went out, that I thought she had a chance if she was serious.”
“A chance?” Kincaid asked. “A chance at what?”
Jachym looked at him as if he were mentally deficient. “The Olympics, of course. In the women’s single scull.”
Kincaid stared back. Bloody hell, he thought. When Rebecca Meredith had been described as an “elite rower,” he’d assumed she rowed in the occasional local regatta.
But an Olympic contender and a senior officer in the Met?
No wonder the brass had wanted their own man on the scene. The press were going to have a feeding frenzy.
And he was not going to get home anytime soon.
Chapter Six
You make your own success in the single scull. You win or lose by your own toughness. You alone are responsible for the outcome of the race. The sheer, unadulterated pleasure of winning a single sculling race, regardless of the level, from novice to elite, is enough to keep you training for another three years .
—Brad Alan Lewis
Assault on Lake Casitas
“W ait,” Kincaid said. “Back up a bit. You’re telling me that Rebecca Meredith was training for the Olympics? But she wasn’t a member of the Leander crew.”
“Didn’t have to be,” Milo answered. “Becca was a member of the club. She could represent Leander in a
“Mr. Jachym?” Kincaid asked before Lily could introduce him. “If we could have a word. We’re from the police.”
Lily left them then, but he was sure that anything they said could be heard from the service kitchen on the other side of the bar. The news would be all over the club in no time.
“I’ve been trying—”
“I know,” Kincaid interrupted. “Mr. Jachym, I understand you were the last person to see Rebecca Meredith?”
“I—” Jachym swallowed visibly. “As far as I know, yes. I told the other policeman, the Asian one.”
“You were Rebecca Meredith’s coach?”
“Not officially, no. Although I was once, many years ago. Please, what’s happened?”
“Mr. Jachym, sit down,” said Kincaid. Milo Jachym, who didn’t appear to be a man accustomed to taking orders, sat.
“May we?” Kincaid asked, and at Jachym’s nod, he and Cullen pulled up the nearest chairs. “Rebecca Meredith’s body was found this afternoon, below Hambleden Weir,” he said, knowing it was best to get it over quickly.
Jachym stared at them. “You’re certain?”
“One of the SAR team identified her. But we’ll need an official ID. Do you know who would be her next of kin?”
“Oh, God.” Jachym made a convulsive movement towards his empty coffee cup, but didn’t touch it. “No one’s told Freddie? He’s been frantic.”
“Freddie?” Kincaid asked, although he remembered the name from the initial missing persons report.
“Freddie Atterton. Becca’s ex-husband.”
“He was the one who reported her missing?”
“I—we—he came to me, this morning. He was worried about her, and I realized I hadn’t seen her shell on the rack in the yard. Look—can you tell me what happened?”
Cullen responded. “The SAR team found her Filippi caught on the Buckinghamshire bank, not far below Temple Island. It was overturned, and one oar was missing.”
“But—if she went in the water there, surely she could have swum to shore. Not that she’d have willingly left the boat . . .” Milo Jachym shook his head and scrubbed impatiently at the graying stubble on his chin. “I’ve been in this sport long enough to know that any rower can have an accident. But I never thought Becca—Freddie was right. I should have stopped her.”
“He didn’t want her to go out?”
“No. I was the one who told him she was training and he was furious. He thought it was foolish.”
“And was it?”
“No. At least I didn’t think so. She was a gold-medal contender when I first worked with her, after she finished university. But she was reckless. Age seemed to have tempered her a bit. I told her last night, before she went out, that I thought she had a chance if she was serious.”
“A chance?” Kincaid asked. “A chance at what?”
Jachym looked at him as if he were mentally deficient. “The Olympics, of course. In the women’s single scull.”
Kincaid stared back. Bloody hell, he thought. When Rebecca Meredith had been described as an “elite rower,” he’d assumed she rowed in the occasional local regatta.
But an Olympic contender and a senior officer in the Met?
No wonder the brass had wanted their own man on the scene. The press were going to have a feeding frenzy.
And he was not going to get home anytime soon.
Chapter Six
You make your own success in the single scull. You win or lose by your own toughness. You alone are responsible for the outcome of the race. The sheer, unadulterated pleasure of winning a single sculling race, regardless of the level, from novice to elite, is enough to keep you training for another three years .
—Brad Alan Lewis
Assault on Lake Casitas
“W ait,” Kincaid said. “Back up a bit. You’re telling me that Rebecca Meredith was training for the Olympics? But she wasn’t a member of the Leander crew.”
“Didn’t have to be,” Milo answered. “Becca was a member of the club. She could represent Leander in a
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