Water Like a Stone

by Deborah Crombie

  “A bit,” answered Hugh. “And a bit like chalk. We heard you were quite the artist. I’ll show you how to use them later on.”

  Giving Gemma’s shoulder a squeeze, Duncan stood up and rooted under the tree until he found his gift for his father. “I know it’s a bit like coals to Newcastle,” he said, passing it across with studied nonchalance, but she heard the anticipation in his voice.

  Hugh hefted the package in his hand and grinned. “Feels like a book.” But when he had peeled off the paper, he sat for a moment, gaping at the small volume, before looking up at his son. “Where did you find this?” he whispered.

  Kincaid had come back to the sofa and slipped his arm round Gemma. “A bookseller in Portobello. I thought you might like it.” It was, as he had explained to Gemma in great detail, a copy of Conversations About Christmas, by Dylan Thomas, one of only two thousand printed in 1954 for the friends of publisher J. Laughlin, none of which was then offered for sale. The text was a segment of Thomas’s “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” altered by the poet into dialogue form.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Hugh pressed his lips together but didn’t quite stop a tremble.

  Kincaid cleared his throat and said a little too heartily, “Read it to us, then.”

  “Now?” asked Hugh, looking at his wife.

  Rosemary nodded. “Why not? The turkey’s in the oven. We’re in no rush.”

  And so Hugh stood with his back to the fire, a pair of reading glasses on his nose, and, in a credible Welsh accent, began to declaim the lines that took Gemma instantly back to her own sitting room the previous Christmas. Duncan had read the poem aloud to her and the children, and she had imagined a string of Christmases to come, with the boys and the child she carried snuggled beside her.

  She shivered and Duncan hugged her a little closer. “Cold?” he murmured in her ear.

  She shook her head and put her finger to her lips, listening intently as the words rolled over them, painting pictures more vivid than memories. Even Toby sat quietly, his pastels held tightly in his lap.

  Duncan had outdone himself, Gemma thought, as if this Christmas, and this homecoming, had been particularly important to him. He had woken her that morning by setting a box beside her pillow.

  “What?” she’d said, blinking sleepily and pulling herself up against the headboard as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Open it.” He was dressed, she saw, but tousled and unshaven, and she guessed he had tiptoed down to the sitting room to retrieve the package.

  “Now? But what about the child—”

  “This isn’t for the children, it’s for you. Go on, open it.”

  She was fully awake now, and her heart gave an anxious little jerk. Pushing her hair from her face, she delayed. “It’s bigger than a bread box.”

  “If you don’t open the damned thing, you’ll be lucky to get a loaf of bread, much less a bread box,” he’d said with mock severity, so she had peeled off the wrapping as carefully as Kit had. “And no, it’s not a toaster,” he’d added as she saw the appliance label on the cardboard box.

  She’d pulled back the box flaps and dug into the nest of tissue paper, easing out first a pottery sugar bowl, then a jug, in the same bright Clarice Cliff pattern as the teapot a friend had given her after her miscarriage.

  “Oh,” she’d breathed, “you shouldn’t have—Wherever did you—They’re lovely.” The pieces were rare, and bloody expensive, and she guessed he—and their friend Alex—had spent months looking for them.

  “You like them?” He’d looked suddenly unsure.

  “Of course I like them!” Pulling him to her, she brushed her lips across his stubbly cheek. His skin felt warm in the room’s chill, and smelled of sleep.

  For just a moment, she’d hoped he’d chosen something a little more romantic, something that represented their future together…

  Then she’d mentally kicked herself for being a fool. If she wanted something as mundane as a ring, all she had to do was ask and he would take her to the nearest jeweler. Instead, he had gone to a great deal of time and expense to find something that had personal meaning for her—not only a personal meaning, but something that symbolized her recovery. What could possibly be more romantic than that?

  Dear God, did she think a little thing like a ring was proof against emotional disaster? Her thoughts strayed to Juliet and Caspar and she shuddered, ashamed of her brief lapse into the pettiness of traditional expectations.

  No, ta very much, she would much rather keep things the way they were. To prove it, she’d thanked Duncan with great enthusiasm, and now the memory of that warm half hour made her move a little closer into the circle of his arm.

  Later, when the presents had all been opened, Hugh had finished his reading, and the sitting room tidied, they’d had turkey and all the trimmings at the long kitchen table. They’d pulled Christmas crackers to the accompaniment of the dogs’ barking, and had all put on their silly paper hats, much to Toby’s delight. Gemma knew that Rosemary and Hugh must be worried about Juliet, but they had done their best to make the day special for the children.

  When they had eaten as much of the turkey as they could manage, they all pushed back their chairs with groans, and by mutual consent agreed to postpone the Christmas pudding until teatime. Gemma insisted on helping Rosemary with the washing up while the men and boys got out the trivia set. She watched them—Hugh, Duncan, and Kit—as they sat over the game board, their lean Kincaid faces stamped with the same intent expression. And then there was Toby, the odd duckling in the brood. How lucky for him, Gemma thought, that he was not the sort to notice that he didn’t belong.

  She was glad they had come, she mused as she wiped plates with a tea towel. She hadn’t realized until they’d got away just how much they’d needed a change, a break from work for her and for Duncan, a break from school for Kit.

  When the phone rang, Rosemary was up to her elbows in the washing-up water. “I’ll get it, shall I?” said Gemma, and at Rosemary’s nod picked up the handset.

  “Gemma?” The word was little more than a whisper, but Gemma recognized Lally’s voice. “Look, I don’t want my dad to hear me,” the girl went on hurriedly. “I’m at my grandma’s—my other grandma’s. I’m in the loo, ringing from my mobile. Have you seen my mum?”

  “Here?” Gemma asked, surprised. “No. Why?” Rosemary had turned to listen, her face frozen in instant alarm, her hands still submerged in the soapy water.

  “She left here ages ago, before dinner,” said Lally, choking back a little hiccup of distress. “She said she’d forgotten something and she’d only be a few minutes, but she never came back.”

  On a blustery day in early spring, he was idling through the covered market in the town center after school, bored with lessons that were too easy, bored with teachers taken in by his excuses, bored with stupid classmates too easily influenced.

  He moved from stall to stall, examining the merchandise under the watchful eye of the stallholders, enjoying the knowledge that he could easily lift something if he chose. It was all worthless tat, though, not worth the bother.

  Then a basket beside the fruit-and-veg stall caught his eye. Had it moved? Leaning closer, he heard a high-pitched mewling, and what he’d initially thought was a bundle of yarn resolved itself into a mass of tiny, squirming kittens.

  “Like a kitten, love?” asked the stallholder, in the too-jolly tone people used with children, as if anyone under the age of reproductive ability was an imbecile. “They’re five pounds, mind,” she added, with a smile that revealed bottom teeth like leaning gravestones. “Just to ensure they go to a good home.”

  “How old are they?” he asked, touching one of the bundles with a fingertip. A tongue emerged, rasping his bare skin. The kitten’s eyes, he saw, were blue, and still slightly clouded, as if it hadn’t quite learned to focus.

  “Six weeks today. They can eat kibble, mushed up with a bit of milk. Would your parents let you have a cat, love?”<
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  He smiled, imagining his mother’s response if he brought home a kitten. Neither of his parents cared for animals at all, and his mother had a phobia about cats.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of coins. “I think I’ve got five pounds. I could surprise my mum.” He counted out three of the heavy coins, made a face, then began sorting through the small change.

  The woman stopped him with a touch on his hand. “No, no, love. That’s all right. For you, I’ll make it three. No need to spend all your pocket money. Is it the gray one you like?” She plunged her hand into the basket and extricated the bit of gray fluff he’d prodded. “He’s a grand one. Can you get him home, or will you have your mum bring you back?”

  Giving the woman his best smile, he took the kitten, tucking it into the anorak he wore over his school blazer and pulling up the zip. “I’m sure I can manage. I’ve got my bike, and I don’t live far.”

  He supported the little body with one hand as he slipped away through the crowd. The kitten wriggled, then quieted, as if comforted by the warmth of his body. “Good luck, sonny,” the woman called after him, but he pretended he hadn’t heard.

  Riding his bike one-handed was easy enough, but instead of turning towards home he rode towards the western edge of town and onto the canal towpath. The days were lengthening, so he still had time before dark, and the ground was dry enough that he needn’t worry about splashing mud on his school clothes. He rode north, and when the town had dropped away behind him, he stopped the bike and leaned it against the budding branches of a hawthorn hedge. Just ahead, the canal curved, and the edging had crumbled, providing a fertile hold for reeds at the water’s edge.

  He came here sometimes when he wanted to think. Hunkering down on a dry hummock among the reeds, he was invisible, but he could hear a boat or pedestrian coming from a good distance away. A faint hum of traffic reached him from the Chester Road and the wind stirred the reed tops, but he found a sheltered spot and folded his legs beneath him. Alerted by the movement, three swans came gliding over, pecking at the tufts of grass lining the canal’s edge.

  The kitten had been lulled by the movement of the bike, but now it stirred and squirmed, digging tiny needles of claws into his skin through blazer and shirt. Annoyed, he pulled it out and lifted it by the scruff of its neck, examining it. It hung paralyzed in his grip, its wide blue eyes unblinking.

  What was he going to do with the thing? The anticipation of his mother’s horror had lost some of its appeal. His pleasure would be short-lived. She might screech, but then she would retreat to her room, and he would be left finding a home for the cat, a tedious task.

  The water rippled as the swans moved away. When the surface stilled, he held the kitten over the canal and studied its wavery reflection. It seemed unreal, a figment of his imagination.

  Without conscious thought, he lowered his hand. The kitten struggled as it met the water, twisting and raking his wrist with its claws, then the cold closed over the small gray body, and his grip held fast.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The temporary incident room at divisional headquarters had been filled with a jumble of scarred and dented furniture not needed elsewhere, and computers had been set up haphazardly on desks and tabletops. Wiring trailed across the scuffed flooring like an infestation of snakes, and Babcock, technophobe that he was, suspected it was almost as dangerous.

  It was cold, as it was summer or winter in the nether regions of the old building, and to add an even more festive touch to the atmosphere, the room smelled strongly of potatoes, onions, and dough. Someone had obviously indulged in a morning snack of Cornish pasty. The idea made Babcock’s stomach churn.

  Ignoring the discomfort, he turned back to the whiteboard set up against one wall and wrote “Baby Jane Doe.”

  “Unless we hear otherwise,” he said, “we are going to assume the child is female.”

  His team had made themselves as comfortable as possible, and he glanced at them to make sure he had their attention before he continued. He listed the pathologist’s conclusions on the board with a dried-out red marker that had an annoying tendency to squeak: “Six to eighteen months old. Interred at least one year, probably during winter. Cause of death not obvious.”

  One of the detective constables groaned. “You’re joking, boss. That’s all we have to go on?”

  “What? You expect miracles?” asked Babcock in a fair imitation of Dr. Elsworthy, and got a laugh from the group. They’d been grousing among themselves, resenting working on their holiday, and he needed their wholehearted cooperation.

  “That rules out the newest owners, the ones doing the construction,” said Rasansky. He’d slouched in the chair nearest the board, his long legs stretched out almost in Babcock’s path.

  “Possibly. Probably. But not the Fosters.” Babcock tapped the end of the marker against the side of his nose while he thought. “Although if they’d disposed of an infant in the barn, it seems unlikely they’d have been eager to sell to someone who was going to take the place apart. I’d put them on the back burner for the moment, although we’ll need to talk to them again. That leaves—”

  “Excuse me, boss.” It was Sheila Larkin, the detective constable who had groaned over the postmortem results. She was a sharp young woman and Babcock was always glad to have her on his team, except for the fact that her very short skirts distracted his male officers, not to mention himself. This morning she sat on the edge of a table with her feet propped on a chair, and he had to drag his gaze away from her bare thighs. He wondered how she managed to avoid freezing.

  “Isn’t it possible,” she continued, “that if the Fosters didn’t use the barn, the job could have been done without their knowledge?”

  “Good point. I don’t think our Mr. Foster stirs out of his armchair too often. And I suppose it could have been done at night, in what—an hour or two? I’m not much of DIY man myself,” Babcock added.

  “Piece of cake,” said Rasansky. “A lantern, a pail of mortar, a trowel. Of course, that’s assuming there was already a space in the wall suitable for filling in.”

  Babcock frowned. “Even so, I doubt whoever did this wandered around with his mortar, hoping he’d run across the perfect spot to inter a baby. This required forethought, and foreknowledge. Our perpetrator had to have been familiar with the barn, and would have to have known when he was least likely to be observed.”

  “Could a builder estimate the age of the mortar?” asked Larkin, crossing one leg over the other and exposing another few inches of plump white thigh. Travis, his scene-of-crime officer, was riveted, and Babcock wondered if he could have a discreet cautionary word with Larkin without being accused of making inappropriate sexual comments.

  “I need to interview Juliet Newcombe again,” he said. “I’ll have a word with her about it.” He turned to Travis. “Any luck with the fingertip search?”

  Not the least bit flustered, Travis gave a last lingering glance at Larkin’s legs before turning his attention to Babcock. “Sod all, boss. Used condoms, fag ends, lunch wrappers, beer cans. Just the combination you’d expect from a construction site that’s also been accessible to teenagers looking to have a bit of fun.”

  Babcock hadn’t expected anything more helpful. He singled out Larkin, who had been assigned to search the missing-persons database. “Any luck with mis-per, Sheila?”

  “It’s difficult without parameters, boss. I started with the last five years, children under two, confining the search to South Cheshire. No matches, male or female.”

  “We’ll stick to South Cheshire for now, as I think it highly unlikely that someone from out of the area would have known about the barn. But let’s go back twenty years. Dr. Elsworthy says the fabrics look to be fairly modern synthetic blends, but twenty years is strictly a guess at this point—we could be looking at twenty-plus. When we get the fabric analysis from the lab, we may be able to narrow it down a bit further.”

  “Yes, boss,
” said Larkin, with her usual gung-ho attitude.

  He nodded his approval before turning back to the others. “I think our biggest priority, after identifying a missing child that fits our parameters, is to trace the former owners, the Smiths. Kevin, I want you to extend the house-to-house. There’s bound to be someone who knows where they went.”

  “I’ve sent someone round to the big house at the top of the lane twice, but no one’s at home,” Rasansky said a little defensively. “They’re the nearest neighbors other than the Fosters, and the most likely prospect.”

  “Well, keep trying. But, Kevin,” he continued, “I want you to see if you can track down Jim Craddock, the estate agent who handled the Smiths’ sale of the property, Christmas or no. And while you’re at it, stop at Somerfield’s and Safeway, and anywhere else you can think of that carries baby products—Oh, hell.” He rubbed at his chin in frustration. “I keep forgetting everything’s closed. We’ll have to put that off until after Boxing Day. Must be your lucky day, Sergeant.”

  The look Rasansky shot him was gratifyingly sour, and as everyone turned to his assigned task, Babcock suddenly found himself whistling under his breath.

  After the brilliance of sun on snow, it took Annie’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light in the narrowboat’s cabin. The curtains had been pulled almost closed, and a single oil lamp burned on the drop-down table. A low fire smoldered in the woodstove, but the cold seemed dense, as if it had settled in the small space like a weight.

  Although Gabriel had built a galley, bathroom, and sleeping quarters into what had once been the boat’s cargo space, he had kept the main cabin as unaltered as possible. As Annie looked round, she felt she had stepped back in time.

  The woodwork was dark, with trim picked out in a cheery red, and every available inch of flat wall space was covered either with polished brasses or with the laceware china plates that the boaters had traditionally collected. Rowan had once told Annie that she had inherited the pieces from her mother. The back of the cross seat had been embellished with a miniature castle—as was the underside of the drop table, Annie remembered—and painted roses cascaded down a side storage box—all Rowan’s work.