No Mark Upon Her

“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