Water Like a Stone

by Deborah Crombie

  Gemma stared at him, galvanized by the thought. In just a few hours, they could be back in the safe haven of their house in Notting Hill, removed from thoughts of disintegrating marriages and dead babies, away from the horror of a violent death that encroached on their personal lives.

  After all, Duncan and Kit had met the woman only briefly—surely they had no obligation to do more than was legally necessary. And Rosemary and Hugh would understand; they would know that Kit was the last child who should be subjected to such stress.

  Glancing towards the car, she saw Kit turn restlessly in his sleep, his lips moving, but the intervening glass muffled any sound. She recalled the things he had said to her in the car, and slowly, reluctantly, shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t think we can. I think we have to see this through. I think we have to let Kit see this through.”

  “But—”

  “It’s all mixed up in his mind,” Gemma continued, certain that she was right. “This woman’s death and his mother’s. He feels responsible, as if he somehow failed them both. And if we take him away, he’ll just carry that burden with him, wherever he goes. We can’t let that happen.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Althea Elsworthy stowed her medical bag in the boot, then climbed gratefully into the relative warmth of the car. Danny, who had sat up at her approach, rested his chin on the seat back and looked at her expectantly. Usually, when she returned to the car, she gave him a biscuit from the large plastic tub she kept on the floor in the front. Of course, he was quite capable of chewing through the container and helping himself, but he was an obedient dog and had never taken advantage of her absence.

  “You’re a good boy,” she said, as she always did, and popped open the tub. Danny took the proferred biscuit delicately, but as he crunched the treat he scattered crumbs and spittle on the towel she kept draped over the seat back for just that purpose.

  Ritual satisfied, he settled down again on the seat with his head on his paws, watching her with an eternal canine optimism she wished she shared.

  While he trusted that she knew what to do next, she was struggling to understand the action she’d just taken—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say “not taken.”

  Why had she remained silent? An easy enough explanation was that the first sight of Annie Lebow’s body had left her simply too stunned to speak. Her lack of intimation seemed odd now. There had been no frisson of foreknowledge when the call came asking her to attend the body of a woman found dead on the towpath below Barbridge. Most likely a jogger struck down by a heart attack, she’d thought, and had merely been thankful that the location of the body would make it easy for her to call in on the Wains. Not even the sight of the boat had cued her.

  But her job required a memory for physical detail, and the fleece top had provided the first jolt of recognition. Then the leather boating shoes, one separated from the foot and lying on its side, as if it had been casually kicked free. After that, the sight of the fair hair, now matted, and the strong jaw, half hidden by the raised forearm, had merely served as confirmation.

  Beyond that point, her failure to admit she knew the victim became harder to justify. If Ronnie Babcock hadn’t been belowdecks, perhaps she would have spoken to him then, when she’d got her breath back from the first shock. But there had only been his green detective constable, hovering, so she’d waited, trying to concentrate on the task at hand, trying to distance herself from the vision of Annie Lebow’s animated face seen just the previous day.

  And then, when Babcock had climbed up from the depths of the boat, with him had been a tall, sharp-eyed man whom Babcock had introduced as a Scotland Yard superintendent. No explanation had been given as to why, or how so quickly, the Yard had been called to the scene of a rural suspicious death, but Althea had felt her heart give an unexpected lurch.

  She’d realized that if she admitted her recent connection with Annie, she’d have to explain about the Wains.

  But now that she’d had a few moments to think, doubt assailed her. Was it just coincidence that Annie Lebow had encountered a family she hadn’t seen since she’d left Social Services, then been killed? Could Gabriel Wain have had something to do with Annie’s death? And if so, why? Gabriel might have accepted Annie’s help grudgingly, but Althea couldn’t imagine that he would have harmed her.

  With sudden impatience, she thrust her uncertainties aside. She had promised to help Rowan Wain, and now it seemed more important than ever that she keep her word. No matter that she’d have to wade through the local constabulary in order to visit the boat—if anyone inquired, she’d simply tell the truth. She was visiting a patient.

  Still, she looked round before getting out of the car, and it was only when the officer watching over the bridge had gone to consult with one of his mates farther up the lane that she retrieved the oxygen tank from the boot and started for the boat. There was no point in complicating matters unnecessarily, she told herself briskly, but she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that she was being watched.

  Although Kincaid usually disliked being driven by someone he didn’t know well, he made an effort to relax into the padded leather passenger seat of Ronnie Babcock’s BMW. He told himself he should appreciate the chance to concentrate on the landscape and clear his mind for the interview to come.

  In the end, it had been Gemma who’d insisted he go with Babcock to see Roger Constantine. Listening in on Babcock’s interview with Kit had been enough to convince him that Gemma was right—they couldn’t just walk away from this and pretend nothing had happened. And if that was the case, she’d argued, it made sense for him to make use of his connection with Babcock, especially as Babcock seemed willing to accommodate him. He’d just have to be careful to maintain his role as spectator, as he suspected Babcock would draw the line at active interference in his investigation.

  “You said this fellow Constantine was a journalist?” he asked Babcock. “I wonder at our odds of catching him at home.”

  Babcock narrowed his eyes in an effort of recall. “I think I remember Annie saying he was a features writer for one of the major northwest papers. Of course, we could have tried contacting him by phone first, but I’d prefer to break bad news in person if at all possible.” It sounded compassionate, but Kincaid knew there was calculation attached—it always paid to see the first reactions of those closest to the victim.

  “Then we’ll hope he works from home, or that journalists take a long Christmas holiday.” Kincaid resisted the urge to pump an imaginary brake as Babcock slowed sharply for a slow-moving farm lorry. When the way was clear, Babcock downshifted and zipped round it with ease. The road had begun to twist and turn, making an ideal showcase for the BMW’s power and maneuverability.

  The character of the countryside changed rapidly as one traveled west from Nantwich. Within just a few miles, the land rose from the flat of the Cheshire Plain into gently wooded undulations, and the simple brick farmhouses began to sport brightly colored gingerbread trim. Kincaid had never learned what had inspired the architectural embellishments, but when he was a boy, the decoration had made him think of cottages in enchanted Germanic forests. The childhood that had allowed such imaginings now seemed impossibly distant, and the loss of his son’s opportunity for such innocence struck him as forcibly as a blow.

  Ronnie Babcock took his eyes from the road to glance at Kincaid. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Sorry?” Kincaid responded.

  Babcock said, “You’re remembering the Ford Anglia I had at school.”

  Relieved, Kincaid said lightly, “Of course. But I never had the dubious pleasure of riding in it.” He recalled the car well, though, a 1966 Saloon special with Venetian-gold paintwork, held together with considerable assistance from baling wire. Ronnie had worked several after-school jobs to save the money for it, and the car had been his pride and joy.

  “A good thing, too,” Babcock agreed. “I had a passenger or two fall out through
the floorboards. I was thinking of building a roof ejector when the old girl finally clapped out on me.”

  “You’ve done well for yourself, Ronnie.” Kincaid’s gesture took in the BMW, but he meant more than that.

  Babcock gave a sardonic smile. “I suppose I have. Just look at me now—overworked, with an overly mortgaged unheated house, and no one but an elderly aunt for company. Just what any working-class lad should strive for.”

  “You’re not married, then?”

  “Divorced. Just this last year.” Babcock’s grimace was worth a thousand words. “What about you? Why haven’t you and the lovely Gemma tied the knot?”

  Taken aback, Kincaid glanced at his friend, but Babcock’s eyes were on the road.

  “It’s complicated,” he said slowly. “In the beginning, we were working together, so I suppose we got in the habit of being secretive. You know how it is. It would have been all right for me if it had come out, just a bit of nudge, nudge, wink, wink from the worst tossers in the locker room, that sort of thing. But for Gemma, it would have meant a permanent shadow on her career. There would always have been whispers that she’d slept her way into promotions, no matter how capable she proved herself.” Even now, the unfairness of it made his blood pressure rise, and he shook his head in disgust before going on. “So when she made inspector and transferred to another posting, we more or less kept on as we were. But then…” Kincaid hesitated.

  “Then we found out that Gemma was pregnant. We moved in together, but I—I think neither of us wanted to feel that—”

  “Marriage was a necessity of circumstance?” Babcock finished for him when he halted again. “That would have been a blow to your pride.”

  Kincaid nodded, feeling his face flush at the accuracy of the hit. “Just so. It seems unutterably selfish now.”

  Frowning, Babcock said, “But it’s been some time, hasn’t it? I met your younger boy, when I came to the house.”

  “Oh, no,” Kincaid hastened to explain. “Toby is Gemma’s son, from her first marriage. We—Gemma lost our baby, halfway to term. That was a year ago.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Babcock looked at him, his battered face creased in sympathy. “That’s a bloody shame.”

  Not trusting himself to accept the commiseration, Kincaid went on, “Since then, we’ve just sort of muddled along, the four of us living as a family. Not unhappily,” he amended, afraid his words had implied that. “It’s just that—I don’t know if she’d have chosen differently, you see, if it hadn’t been for the child.” Kincaid realized it was the first time he’d admitted his fear, even to himself, and he felt suddenly as exposed as if he’d laid bare his chest to the knife.

  “You could ask her,” Babcock suggested, as if it were the most reasonable response imaginable.

  “Christ, no.” Kincaid shook his head. “I’d be forcing her into a corner then, and if she told me what I wanted to hear, I’d never be sure if she was being honest or just kind.” He thought of her refusal to discuss trying for another child, and felt cold.

  He searched for a change of subject, glad that Babcock was momentarily distracted as he downshifted and left the A49 for a B road signposted NO MAN’S HEATH. “That sounds a desolate place,” Kincaid offered, a little too quickly.

  “A bit Shakespearean,” Babcock agreed. “But there’s a nice pub there, as it happens. That’s why I came this way, I suppose. Old habits.” With that ambiguous and uninviting comment, he fell silent, leaving Kincaid to gaze at the scenery and wonder about his friend’s reticence.

  They were nearing the Welsh border, and he could see that it had snowed more heavily here. Snow still lingered on the eaves of the isolated farmhouses, and as they passed through the pretty redbrick hill town of Malpas, the anti-icing grit crunched under the BMW’s tires.

  A few miles farther north, the tree-lined lane dipped and curved into the hamlet of Tilston. Although they slowed to a crawl, reading the address plaques on the cottages and suburban bungalows lining the road, they still missed Roger Constantine’s house the first time past. The steep entrance to its drive faced away from them, so that they only saw the address when they had turned around at the postage stamp of a village green and come back from the opposite direction.

  In a village of cottages and suburban bungalows, the Victorian lodge stood on a high bank above the road, screened from below by the large trees and shrubs of a mature garden.

  “Blimey,” Babcock said eloquently as they bumped up the narrow gravel drive and pulled to a stop on the forecourt. “Nice digs for a journalist, wouldn’t you say?”

  Kincaid had to agree. The house’s brick facade was a mellow rose rather than the harsh burnt red used often in Cheshire and North Wales, and the gleaming white trim looked freshly painted. “Maybe he’s sold a few exclusives to the Sun,” Kincaid quipped.

  “My ex-wife would have killed for this,” Babcock muttered as they climbed from the car and crossed the raked gravel of the drive.

  Kincaid merely nodded. He felt the weight of the coming interview descend on him—he had never learned to bear bad tidings easily. He took a preparatory breath, but before they reached the porch, the front door opened and a large German shepherd charged out at them. Kincaid’s life flashed before his eyes in the instant it took him to see that the dog was firmly attached to a lead held by a slight man with trimmed white hair and beard.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked, reining the dog in with an admonishing “Jazz, easy.”

  The dog subsided into a sit at the man’s left knee, but whined in protest.

  “Are you Roger Constantine?” Babcock asked warily, having backed off a pace.

  “Yes. What can I do for you?” Constantine was frowning now, and it occurred to Kincaid for the first time that in their casual clothes neither he nor Babcock radiated official import. The man probably thought they were selling double glazing.

  Babcock took out his warrant card and displayed it as carefully as if Constantine were holding a loaded gun instead of the now-panting dog. “I’m Chief Inspector Babcock, Cheshire constabulary, and this is Superintendent Kincaid. Sorry to barge in on you unannounced—”

  “Look, if this is about the gang story, I’ve already told your colleagues I can’t divulge—”

  “No, this is a personal matter, Mr. Constantine. If we could speak to you inside.” Babcock made a statement of the question, and the first flash of uneasiness crossed Constantine’s face. Kincaid saw now that the white hair and beard had given a misleading impression of the man’s age; Constantine’s face was unlined, and the eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles were sharp and a very pale blue.

  “All right,” Constantine agreed reluctantly, and in an aside to the dog added, “You’ll have to wait for your walk, Jazzy.” He turned to the door, motioning to them as he opened it. When he noticed Babcock still hesitating, he said, “Oh. Don’t mind the dog. He’s quite friendly, really.”

  Kincaid went first, holding out a hand, palm down, for the dog to sniff. While the dog investigated the scents on his clothes, his tail now wagging, Kincaid took in the interior of the house with equal interest. An archway opened the central hall onto a sitting room to the left. Deep gold walls and white trim set off the gilded frames of pictures and mirrors and a beautiful black-and-white tile floor. Small touches—a potted fern on a stand, a few items of well-made caned furniture scattered among heavier items—hinted at the Victorian history of the house.

  Through an open door on the right, he glimpsed a plum-colored dining room filled with rich mahogany furniture, then Constantine was ushering them into a combined kitchen–sitting room at the back of the house.

  Immediately, he saw that they had stepped offstage. This room, while expensively done with the requisite Aga and custom cabinetry, was cluttered with books and papers and used mugs. A laptop computer stood open on the large oak table, and a dog bed festooned with chew toys lay near the stove. The room still held the comforting breakfast scents of toast and coffee, with a faint u
nderlying note of dog.

  “I suppose you’d better sit,” said Constantine, scooping papers from two chairs and dumping them onto the already overflowing surface of a Welsh dresser. “Jazz, lie down on your bed,” he commanded the dog.

  He took the chair by the laptop himself, and waited with an air of contained impatience for them to get on with whatever it was they wanted.

  After a relieved glance at the dog’s retreating hindquarters, Babcock began, “Mr. Constantine, am I right in thinking that at one time you were married to Annie Constantine?”

  Constantine frowned. “What do you mean, ‘were married’? We’re still married.”

  Babcock flicked a startled glance in Kincaid’s direction before continuing. “Then you and your wife maintain separate domiciles?”

  “Yes. She lives aboard her boat, although I don’t see why our marital arrangements are any business of yours. What’s going on here?” There was tension in his voice now, a thread of fear beneath the annoyance. Constantine was a journalist; although Babcock hadn’t identified Kincaid as Scotland Yard, he would realize that two senior police officers even of local jurisdiction didn’t make routine inquiries.

  “But your wife uses the name Lebow?” Babcock used the present tense carefully.

  “Sometimes. It’s her maiden name. Look, what’s this about?”

  The dog, which had been watching with its head on its paws, sat up and whined.

  Babcock sat forward, his eyes fixed on Roger Constantine’s face. “Mr. Constantine, I’m sorry to tell you that your wife was found dead this morning.”

  “What?” Constantine stared at them. Light caught the reflective surface of his glasses, momentarily masking his eyes. “Is this some sort of joke? I just spoke to her last night. There must be a mistake.”

  “No, sir. Mr. Cons—”

  “It can’t have been Annie.” Constantine gripped the edge of the table, as if assailed by sudden vertigo, and it occurred to Kincaid that in his experience, women often accepted the news of a tragedy more quickly than men. It was as if women carried with them a constant intimation of mortality, while men assumed that both they and their loved ones were invincible.