Water Like a Stone

by Deborah Crombie

  And it was Piers who had had the good grace not to say “I told you so,” but had smiled with the sort of sympathy only another man could offer, and had promised him that together they would work everything out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Babcock reached Nantwich town center at half past eight the next morning to find the premises of Newcombe and Dutton still locked, blinds closed. He strolled across to the churchyard, taking up a position on a bench that would allow him to keep an unobtrusive eye on the firm’s door. The morning was gray, the remnants of the previous night’s fog still hovering round the rooftops and the massive square of the church tower, and it wasn’t long before the chill of the bench slats worked its way through his overcoat. He’d begun to contemplate the advisability of adding a pound or two of padding to his backside when a shiny new Land Rover (both adjectives oxymorons when combined with Land Rover, in Babcock’s opinion) pulled into the firm’s parking area and Piers Dutton climbed unhurriedly out.

  Babcock found it interesting that it was Dutton who’d arrived first to open the office, when Caspar Newcombe lived just a short walk away. But perhaps investment advisors, unlike police officers, relaxed their schedules during Christmas week. The development suited him well enough, however, as he wanted to interview Dutton on his own.

  He gave Dutton a few minutes to get settled so as not to give the impression he’d been waiting to pounce. He wanted the man relaxed, at least in the beginning.

  While he waited, he popped knuckles stiffening from the cold and ran over the conversation he’d had with Duncan Kincaid the night before. It was a tricky situation. Not only had Kincaid told him about his sister’s suspicions against her wishes, but Babcock didn’t know Juliet Newcombe well enough to judge her credibility. For all he knew, she might have made the entire business up to satisfy a personal grudge.

  When the office blinds snapped open, Babcock took it as his cue and, prizing himself off the bench, crossed Churchyardside to the office, at the end of Monk’s Lane. A bell chimed gently as Babcock pushed open the door and stepped into the reception area. Piers Dutton came out of an inner office, looking surprised to see him, but not alarmed.

  “You’re the early bird, Chief Inspector,” he said genially. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just a quick word, Mr. Dutton, if you don’t mind.”

  “No further along, are you, in finding the elusive Smiths?” Dutton asked as he waved Babcock towards the room from which he’d appeared. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Babcock, never a morning person himself, had not expected such cordiality from Dutton. He wasn’t about to refuse what he suspected would be good coffee, however, especially as he was half frozen.

  Following Dutton, he looked round the man’s private office with interest. He’d been right about the coffeemaker. A sleek German contraption that looked as if it might run on rocket fuel took center stage on the credenza against the back wall, and the smell emanating from it was enough to make Babcock light-headed.

  The rest of the furnishings matched the credenza, never a look that appealed to Babcock personally, but the patina of the wood and the thickness of the carpet beneath his feet shouted money, as he supposed it was meant to do. The maize-colored wall behind Dutton’s desk held a single painting, an ornately framed study of a bay horse and spaniel in the style of George Stubbs. But the more Babcock studied the jewel-like depth of the colors and the exquisite execution of the brushwork, the more he began to wonder if it actually was a Stubbs, and he whistled soundlessly through his teeth.

  “There you are, Chief Inspector.” Dutton handed him a coffee, in a bone-china cup and saucer, no less, and looked at him quizzically.

  “Just admiring your painting, sir,” said Babcock, going for the country-bumpkin air. “Reminds me of a picture I saw once in London, at the Tate. By George Stubbs, I think it was.”

  Dutton turned to gaze at the painting, but didn’t quite manage to hide the flicker of pleasure that crossed his face. “Very astute of you, Chief Inspector. It is a Stubbs. A family heirloom, actually, but I keep it here where I can enjoy it most.”

  Babcock rather doubted that, as Dutton’s back would be to the painting as he sat at his desk, just as he doubted the painting was a family heirloom, but he looked suitably impressed. “Not worried about theft, then, sir?” he asked, eyeing the office window, which looked directly out onto the parking area and, beyond that, the town square.

  “Our security’s quite good,” said Dutton. “And I don’t bandy the painting’s provenance about. Very few people are aware of its value.” He eyed Babcock curiously, and while Babcock felt he might have erred in displaying interest in the painting, he found it telling that Dutton hadn’t been able to resist bragging about his possession.

  Dutton poured his own coffee, then seated himself in one of the two visitors’ chairs, motioning Babcock to take the other one. It was a gesture designed to make Babcock feel comfortable, one Babcock imagined Dutton used when he was working a client up to an agreement, and he wondered why the man had changed his tactic after the subtle condescension he’d displayed during their first interview. It could be that the mention of the painting had made Dutton feel he deserved to be treated as a social equal—a thought that made Babcock want to grind his teeth—or it could be that Dutton was nervous about something. Babcock’s curiosity rose another notch.

  “Actually, Mr. Dutton, it’s not the Smiths I’ve come about,” he said. Having sipped the coffee, and found it as good as it smelled, he balanced the delicate cup on his knee. “Do I take it you haven’t heard about yesterday’s murder?”

  “Murder?” Dutton gazed at him blankly.

  “A woman named Annie Lebow was found murdered beside her narrowboat, quite near your house, in fact.” When Dutton still registered nothing but puzzlement, Babcock added, “I believe you might have known her as Annie Constantine. She was one of your clients.”

  “What?” Dutton’s eyes widened, and Babcock could have sworn he saw real shock, quickly camouflaged, in the slackening muscles of the man’s face. “Of course I know Annie Constantine,” Dutton said slowly. “Don’t know why she started calling herself Lebow, when she and her husband aren’t even divorced.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what he’d heard. “Dead, you say?”

  “Can you account for your movements night before last, Mr. Dutton?” asked Babcock, tiring of the man’s baffled-squire act when he felt quite sure there was lightning calculation going on behind the blue eyes.

  “My movements? Why on earth would you need to know that?” Although he sounded incensed, Dutton’s china rattled in his hand. He leaned forward to set the cup and saucer on the edge of his desk, sloshing coffee as he did so.

  “Routine inquiries,” Babcock said, knowing it would irritate Dutton. “But I’m sure you want to cooperate in any way you can.”

  “Of course,” Dutton agreed heartily. “But I hadn’t met with Annie Constantine for at least a year, so I don’t quite see—”

  “Were you at home the night before last, Mr. Dutton?”

  “I—No, actually, I met friends for dinner, at the Swan in Tarporley. We finished about half past ten, and I drove home. The fog was drawing in, so I thought it best to get off the road before the visibility worsened.” Now Dutton was volunteering information, an indication that he was definitely off balance. “Especially as I’d had one or two glasses of wine over the limit,” he added, imparting the confidence with a slight twinkle, one sophisticated man to another.

  Babcock didn’t return the smile. “And when you arrived home, can anyone vouch for your movements? Your son, perhaps?”

  Dutton’s careful bonhomie vanished instantly. Blanching, he said furiously, “I won’t have you grilling my son, Chief Inspector. I can’t think why you believe any of this is necessary—”

  “The victim has considerable money invested with your firm, I believe?”

  Reaching for his coffee again, Dutton se
emed to make an effort to recover some of his assurance, but Babcock caught the sudden scent of his expensive aftershave, mixed with sweat. “Since when is that a crime,” Dutton said with forced lightness, “or anyone else’s business?”

  “When we’ve received information indicating that you might have been defrauding some of your clients, Mr. Dutton. If you were stealing from Ms. Constantine and she found out, that would certainly give you a motive. It appears you had opportunity, and the means were easy enough to hand.”

  Dutton gave an unexpected bark of laughter. “So that’s your theory, Chief Inspector? And your source would be Juliet Newcombe, I take it?” He shook his head, a fond uncle expressing disappointment. “I expected better of you. Look, I’ve tried to be discreet about this whole business, for Caspar’s sake, but you must know that the woman is seriously unbalanced. She developed a sort of unhealthy…obsession…with me.” He looked away, as if embarrassed by the admission. “When I didn’t respond, she began to retaliate. She…imagined things. That’s why I encouraged her to leave the office, to set up on her own. I put clients her way. I tried to protect my partner as best I could, but in the end, I had to tell him what was going on.”

  It was slick, it was plausible, it was recounted with just the right degree of reluctance, and Babcock found that he didn’t believe a word. For the first time, he felt certain that Juliet Newcombe had been telling the truth and that Dutton had manufactured her infatuation with him as a shield. Had her husband actually believed him?

  But if Juliet Newcombe had held such dangerous knowledge, why wasn’t she dead, rather than Annie Constantine? Was it because Dutton hadn’t been sure what Juliet knew? Or because he guessed her loyalty to her husband would keep her quiet?

  If that was the case, could Annie Constantine have found out something from Juliet that aroused her own suspicions? Was there a link between the two women that Juliet hadn’t revealed? And did any of this connect in some way with the infant buried in the barn, so near Piers Dutton’s property?

  Dutton was watching him, as if assessing his reaction, so Babcock said sympathetically, “How very difficult for you. But I’m sure you can understand that we will have to audit the records of your transactions on Ms. Constantine’s behalf.”

  “I understand nothing of the kind.” Dutton’s smile, which had never reached his eyes, disappeared entirely, and his tone could have frozen a hot geyser. “You have no right to my clients’ confidential files, Chief Inspector, and if you persist, I’ll have to bring in my attorney.”

  Babcock finished his coffee with deliberation, enjoying the last drop, then reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded paper. “Then you can show him this. It’s a warrant authorizing our fraud team to search your records. They should be here”—he glanced at his watch—“any moment now. If you don’t mind, I’ll just make myself at home until they arrive. And while we’re waiting,” he added, pulling a notebook from his pocket as well, “you could start by giving me the names of the friends you dined with in Tarporley.”

  Althea found Gabriel Wain waiting for her in the lay-by across the canal from his boat. He stood like a brooding hawk, hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched, glancing from the boat to the lane and back again. Although he waited while she found a spot for her car at the bottom of the lay-by, he shifted his stance uneasily, his impatience seeming barely contained. Her heart constricted as she reached him. Had Rowan taken a turn for the worse?

  But before she could ask, he spoke, the words spilling out as if he could no longer contain them. “The police have been. I said what you told me, that the Constantine woman had reversed into the Daphne and scraped her bow. It seemed all right.”

  “Well, then, that’s—”

  “No, no,” he broke in impatiently. “Later, a woman came while I was away gathering firewood. Police or bloody social worker, one or the other. I only saw her from a distance, but I can smell it, the nosiness, the do-gooding. She was talking to Marie, this woman, asking her questions. Then when she saw me coming, she left.”

  “What did she ask, did Marie say?”

  “Only that she was a ‘nice lady.’ I’ve told the girl time and again not to speak to strangers—”

  “Leave her be, Gabriel,” said Althea, thinking furiously. “She’s just a child, and she’s not the issue here.” If the police were suspicious of Gabriel, wouldn’t Babcock have mentioned something when she’d spoken to him the previous afternoon?

  Was it possible that Babcock had got wind of her involvement and had kept things from her deliberately? He had, after all, gone over her head to speak to the forensic anthropologist about the mummified infant.

  What if Babcock had discovered Annie Lebow’s connection with Gabriel and his family? And if the police learned of the past accusations against Rowan and Gabriel, would Social Services be far behind?

  She met Gabriel’s eyes, saw the raw fear there, and knew her decision had made itself. For just an instant, a detached part of her mind wondered how she had got from a woman who’d spent her life refusing any commitments other than the care of her sister, to this reckless person who was willing to risk career and reputation to help people she hardly knew. But then she heard herself say, “Gabriel?” and the voice of reason vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp.

  “Gabriel,” she repeated, more forcefully. “Listen. About the children. I think you should let them come with me for a bit.” She forestalled the protest she saw forming on his lips, all the while wondering how she would juggle her work at the hospital, how she would handle things at home. Should she call in and say she was ill? Would the children be all right if she left them with Beatrice? Could she ask Paul for help?

  “If the police come back, they might bring someone from Social Services,” she continued. “If the children weren’t here, at least we’d have a chance to forestall things. I’ve some connections—”

  “But Rowan—she couldn’t bear to let them go. Every minute she has—” He stopped, eyes reddening, and looked back towards the boat. “How could I even…”

  “I know,” Althea said, gently. “But what if they took the children away? I can’t imagine anything worse for Rowan than that. And if they come…if they should take you in for questioning, the children would see…”

  “They’ve never spent a night away from this boat,” Gabriel protested fiercely. “They don’t know anything else.”

  A wave of sadness swept over Althea. She reached out and touched his arm, a contact neither of them would have accepted even a few moments before. “Gabriel, things are going to change. Whatever happens, things are going to change.”

  “You couldn’t have gone with him, you know,” Gemma told Kincaid quietly. They had arrived at Crewe Police station after breakfast to find Babcock already gone. “You’re too close; you know that. With Juliet involved, we’ll be lucky if the DCI doesn’t boot us out altogether.”

  They moved to an unoccupied desk in the corner of the incident room, and she knew that the sense of the investigations flowing around them must be as frustrating for Kincaid as it was for her. He took the swivel chair, the cracks in its faux-leather seat mended with packing tape. Scowling, he drummed his fingers on the sticky surface of the desk. She knew that he knew she was right, but she also knew that admitting it would make him even more irritable, so she let it drop.

  The choleric Sergeant Rasansky had been out as well, and it had been DC Larkin who’d told them that Babcock had already gone to interview Piers Dutton, warrant in hand, with the fraud team scheduled to meet him there at a prearranged time. Impressed with his efficiency, Gemma had said, “He’s got skates on, your guv’nor.”

  Larkin had shaken her head. “You’d not have wanted to cross him this morning. He was up half the night getting that warrant, and he’ll be paying back favors until doomsday. Piers Dutton has a lot of influence in this town.” She gave Kincaid a searching look. “I hope you’re right about this. The fraud lads won’t be happy if he’s given them a
false lead, either.”

  With that disapproving comment, she’d gone back to her desk and her reports, and although she gave them the occasional curious glance, she didn’t protest their presence. But a few moments later, a phone call took all her attention.

  Gemma watched her, liking the young DC’s brisk manner, and when Larkin rang off, she navigated her way across the floor obstacles and perched on the edge of the constable’s desk. “Anything interesting?” she asked.

  Larkin hesitated, then gave a slight shrug, apparently deciding that if they were in Babcock’s confidence she might as well share. “That was Western Division. The constable who most often patrols Tilston knows Roger Constantine. Says he keeps to himself, but according to neighbors, he’s been seen occasionally having dinner in the pub with a younger woman.”

  Kincaid had joined them in time to hear her summary. “That gives him motive in spades,” he said, looking distinctly more cheerful. “But we know Annie rang him at home that night—could he have driven from Tilston to Barbridge in the fog after that? And if so, could he have found the boat?”

  “She might have given him specific directions,” suggested Gemma, but Kincaid was already frowning.

  “I’d think that unless he was very familiar with that stretch of the Shroppie, he’d quite likely have ended up in the Cut rather than alongside it. You’ve seen how it twists and turns along that stretch. Unless—”

  He stopped as Larkin’s attention shifted towards the door. Turning, Gemma saw not Babcock, but Sergeant Rasansky, looking happier than she’d imagined possible.

  “What’s up, Sarge?” asked Larkin, sounding equally surprised. “You look like the proverbial cat in the cream.”

  “I found the bloody Smiths.” Rasansky nodded at Kincaid and Gemma, and seated himself on the edge of Larkin’s desk, regardless of carefully arranged paperwork. “Settled in a retirement flat in Shrewsbury—not a bad place if you like that sort—”