race. But even that wasn’t necessary. Anyone can compete in an Olympic trial.”
Cullen frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. “Brad Lewis.”
Milo Jachym was already nodding in agreement. Kincaid felt as if he were playing table tennis without the ball. “What are you talking about?”
“Brad Alan Lewis,” Cullen explained. “He won gold in double sculls at the Los Angeles Olympics in 1984. And he did it from completely outside the system, and with next to no financial backing.”
“And Becca is—was”—Milo’s lips tightened in a spasm of distress—“not dissimilar in character. Stubborn. Obsessive. Determined to do things her way. And like Lewis, she knew it was her last opportunity.”
“But you said her ex-husband was furious when he found out she was training. Why, if she really did have a chance at something that big?”
“I— He was concerned about her safety, I assumed, because she was going out so late. But it was the only way she could row every day.”
“Unless,” Kincaid said thoughtfully, “she quit the job. And that—”
The phone in his pocket vibrated once, then again—an incoming call. Irritating as the interruption was, he couldn’t afford to let it go.
He didn’t recognize the number on the display, but he knew DI Singla’s voice immediately. “Superintendent, there’s a man at Rebecca Meredith’s cottage,” said Singla. “He’s threatening the constable I put on watch there. Do you want me to have him picked up? He says he’s her husband.”
“Y ou are an absolute dear.” Gemma stretched her legs out under the kitchen table and raised her glass to Melody in salute. Melody had not only arrived with a very nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, but had picked up pizza, dripping with olive oil and garlic, from Sugo’s, Gemma’s favorite Italian bistro at Notting Hill Gate.
“Good thing I left the car at the flat,” Melody said, pouring herself another generous measure. “And if I come across any vampires on the walk home, they’ll take one whiff of me and run the other way.” She blew out a breath, as if testing her theory.
Melody lived in a mansion block on Kensington Park Road, and declared that the half-mile walk between her flat and Duncan and Gemma’s house in St. John’s Gardens provided just the right amount of exercise after an overindulgence in food and drink.
“Do you suppose garlic has a calming effect on children, too?” Gemma asked. “I think they’re probably related to vampires.”
By the time they’d reached home, Toby had been overexcited, and Charlotte even more clingy and fretful. While Toby had refused to sit still, dancing around the table with his slice of pizza, teasing the dogs, the cat, and Charlotte, Charlotte had agreed to eat her supper only if held in Gemma’s lap. Kit, unusually unsociable, had grabbed half a pizza and disappeared upstairs, plate in one hand and phone in the other.
“I can do the washing-up,” offered Melody. “Dab hand in the kitchen.”
Gemma considered. “You know, I’ve never actually seen you cook. But you get top votes for deliveryperson.”
“I can cook,” Melody protested, grinning. “Um, cheese, biscuits, wine . . .” She furrowed her brow, then shrugged. “Well, maybe not so much. But I really can wield a mean Fairy Liquid.” She started to stand, but Gemma waved her back into her chair.
“It’s only pizza boxes. Easily done when the kids are in bed.” Knowing bedtime would be an ordeal and wanting to enjoy her visit with Melody, Gemma had bribed the little ones with the promise of a video in the sitting room. Once she’d convinced Toby that he really did not need to watch Peter Pan for the hundredth time, she’d settled them down with The Lion King and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Now she could hear Toby singing along tunelessly.
“The West End in his future, for certain,” said Melody, and they both giggled.
“Only if he can swashbuckle,” Gemma said,
Cullen frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. “Brad Lewis.”
Milo Jachym was already nodding in agreement. Kincaid felt as if he were playing table tennis without the ball. “What are you talking about?”
“Brad Alan Lewis,” Cullen explained. “He won gold in double sculls at the Los Angeles Olympics in 1984. And he did it from completely outside the system, and with next to no financial backing.”
“And Becca is—was”—Milo’s lips tightened in a spasm of distress—“not dissimilar in character. Stubborn. Obsessive. Determined to do things her way. And like Lewis, she knew it was her last opportunity.”
“But you said her ex-husband was furious when he found out she was training. Why, if she really did have a chance at something that big?”
“I— He was concerned about her safety, I assumed, because she was going out so late. But it was the only way she could row every day.”
“Unless,” Kincaid said thoughtfully, “she quit the job. And that—”
The phone in his pocket vibrated once, then again—an incoming call. Irritating as the interruption was, he couldn’t afford to let it go.
He didn’t recognize the number on the display, but he knew DI Singla’s voice immediately. “Superintendent, there’s a man at Rebecca Meredith’s cottage,” said Singla. “He’s threatening the constable I put on watch there. Do you want me to have him picked up? He says he’s her husband.”
“Y ou are an absolute dear.” Gemma stretched her legs out under the kitchen table and raised her glass to Melody in salute. Melody had not only arrived with a very nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, but had picked up pizza, dripping with olive oil and garlic, from Sugo’s, Gemma’s favorite Italian bistro at Notting Hill Gate.
“Good thing I left the car at the flat,” Melody said, pouring herself another generous measure. “And if I come across any vampires on the walk home, they’ll take one whiff of me and run the other way.” She blew out a breath, as if testing her theory.
Melody lived in a mansion block on Kensington Park Road, and declared that the half-mile walk between her flat and Duncan and Gemma’s house in St. John’s Gardens provided just the right amount of exercise after an overindulgence in food and drink.
“Do you suppose garlic has a calming effect on children, too?” Gemma asked. “I think they’re probably related to vampires.”
By the time they’d reached home, Toby had been overexcited, and Charlotte even more clingy and fretful. While Toby had refused to sit still, dancing around the table with his slice of pizza, teasing the dogs, the cat, and Charlotte, Charlotte had agreed to eat her supper only if held in Gemma’s lap. Kit, unusually unsociable, had grabbed half a pizza and disappeared upstairs, plate in one hand and phone in the other.
“I can do the washing-up,” offered Melody. “Dab hand in the kitchen.”
Gemma considered. “You know, I’ve never actually seen you cook. But you get top votes for deliveryperson.”
“I can cook,” Melody protested, grinning. “Um, cheese, biscuits, wine . . .” She furrowed her brow, then shrugged. “Well, maybe not so much. But I really can wield a mean Fairy Liquid.” She started to stand, but Gemma waved her back into her chair.
“It’s only pizza boxes. Easily done when the kids are in bed.” Knowing bedtime would be an ordeal and wanting to enjoy her visit with Melody, Gemma had bribed the little ones with the promise of a video in the sitting room. Once she’d convinced Toby that he really did not need to watch Peter Pan for the hundredth time, she’d settled them down with The Lion King and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Now she could hear Toby singing along tunelessly.
“The West End in his future, for certain,” said Melody, and they both giggled.
“Only if he can swashbuckle,” Gemma said,
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