Water Like a Stone (18 page)

A car door slammed in the street and Juliet jerked, spilling pages across the desk. She listened, but no footsteps approached. Closing her eyes for a moment, she calmed her racing pulse. A few more minutes, and then she would go.

Then, as she gazed at the papers spread across the green baize of the blotter, something caught her eye. She recognized the share issuer, a German high-tech company that Caspar recommended to his own clients, but something didn’t seem quite right. She checked the corresponding record of payment again, and frowned. Quickly, she switched on Piers’s calculator and entered the amount in euros, then figured the exchange into pounds sterling. “Bloody hell,” she whispered. The amount paid to the client was off by a good 10 percent.

She pulled another statement from the loose pages and ran the figures again, with the same results. Chewing her lip in concentration, she carefully gathered up the pages and returned that client’s folder to the file drawer. Randomly, she selected another, with similar investments, and did the calculations once more.

“You sodding bastard,” she said, this time making no effort to keep her voice down. It was so blindingly simple. Most of Piers’s clients were well-off, with multiple investments in both shares and unit trusts. Would any of them bother to match each income check against the exchange rate? Piers had been skimming a cool 10 percent of his clients’ earnings, and now she had found the proof.

At first the darkness at the water’s edge seemed absolute. The sky had filled with mottled clouds, their edges livid with the light of an obscured sickle moon, and little illumination filtered through the overhanging trees.

As his eyes began to adjust, however, he could make out a few gleaming patches of the previous night’s snow, blotched like alien fungi on the soft belly of the towpath.

Carefully, he stepped forward until he could see down into the canal itself. There was no wind and no reflection; he might have been staring into an inky, bottomless void. The sensation was oddly exhilarating, like a glimpse into another universe, and he felt a proprietary surge of pleasure. This was his secret place; he had power here, and the knowledge calmed him.

Things were happening that he hadn’t anticipated, and while he didn’t foresee any real danger, the loss of control made him edgy. Reaching into his coat, he pulled the curved silver flask from his inside pocket and took a sip, then another. Alcohol, he’d learned, was a beautiful thing. Just enough would loosen him up, ease him into a transcendent state where time and action could be manipulated to
suit him. Flow, he thought of it, where the ideas that blossomed in his head melded perfectly with his emotions.

But he never drank too much. Deliberately, he replaced the flask’s cap and screwed it tight. He couldn’t afford to be muddled, not now, when he might have to make an unexpected decision. Nor did he want to lose an iota of the intensity of experience, or the clarity of memory. His recollections were kept like the pearls in his pocket, savored, caressed, treasured.

So he paced himself, with medicinal discipline. Only once had his control faltered, and that was because he hadn’t realized just how intoxicating murder could be.

Gemma watched Rosemary Kincaid fidget for half an hour after Duncan and Kit left for their walk. They’d quickly finished the washing up, and when Hugh had muttered something about splitting wood and slipped out through the scullery, Rosemary had murmured, “That’s his refuge when he’s worried, the woodshed.”

They sat at the kitchen table, nursing mugs of unwanted tea, while Toby still slept on the dog bed near the kitchen stove. He looked positively cherubic, his cheeks flushed and his straw-fair hair tousled, one arm thrown over the patient cocker spaniel’s back. The sheepdog and the terrier had moved aside, looking slightly affronted at the usurpation of their warm cushion.

“It’s a good thing he hasn’t an allergy to dog hair,” said Rosemary, watching him. “Aren’t they lovely when they sleep? When Duncan and Juliet were small, no matter how difficult they’d been or how tired I was, I would always go in and watch them for a few minutes after they fell asleep. It helped keep things in perspective. That was until they started locking their bedroom doors, of course,” she added wryly. “And even then, you tell yourself that once they’re grown, your worries will be over.” She looked wan, and it seemed to Gemma that the lines bracketing her nose and mouth had deepened since morning.

“It’s not like Juliet, is it?” Gemma asked quietly. “Going off without telling anyone. Leaving the children.” She hadn’t felt comfortable with Duncan’s dismissal of his sister’s unexplained disappearance, nor with his admonition to his parents to ignore it. Of course, she didn’t know Juliet as well as he did, but she seemed a responsible mother, and responsible mothers didn’t walk out on their children in the middle of Christmas dinner.

“No.” Rosemary gripped her mug until her knuckles blanched. “But then I’d never have thought Caspar capable of the things I heard him say last night. And to think I found him charming, once. He was so earnest. I’m not quite sure when that earnestness turned to self-importance.”

The behavior Gemma had witnessed in Caspar Newcombe the previous night had been worse than self-important—it had been vicious. Remembering the near hysteria in Lally’s voice, she said carefully, “Rosemary, you don’t think Caspar would hurt the children? Lally seemed awfully worried about her father’s reaction if he even learned she’d rung you.”

“Lally’s been a bit prone to dramatizing lately—I suppose it’s understandable.” Rosemary glanced up at Gemma, guilt in the eyes that were so like her son’s. “So at first I thought perhaps she was exaggerating things, looking for attention. But now…the thing is, when I spoke to Caspar, I could tell he was drinking. I don’t like the idea of him on his own with the children—not to mention the fact that if Caspar’s been drinking, you can bet his father has as well, and I hate to think of Ralph driving them home…” She stood and took her cup to the sink, then wiped at the already spotless worktop with a tea towel. With her back to Gemma, she said, “And Juliet—Caspar was so angry, but cold with it, as if he’d been storing it up.”

Gemma glanced at Toby, still sleeping despite the rhythmic thunk of the wood splitter from behind the house, and came to a decision. “How far is it to—what did you say the town was called? Audlem?”

“A half hour from Nantwich. A bit farther for us.”

“Look, why don’t you and Hugh go and get the children. Bring them here. You can leave Juliet a message saying what you’ve done, and I’ll stay here in case she rings. Caspar
will
let you take the children?”

Rosemary frowned. “I think so, yes. He won’t want to make a scene in front of his parents, especially after what’s already happened. But if Juliet goes home, and Caspar’s there without the children…”

“Has he ever hurt Juliet?” Gemma asked gently, trying to mask her own fear.

“I don’t think so. But then I assumed they’d just grown a little distant, that the children growing up and Juliet leaving the office were causing a temporary strain.”

“This partner—do you think there’s any truth to Caspar’s accusations? Could Juliet be having an affair with him?” Gemma had met the man briefly after midnight mass the night before. He’d stood with Caspar, oozing the sort of charm that made her instantly wary. She found it hard to imagine a woman as straightforward as Juliet Newcombe being tempted by such goods.

“I don’t know,” replied Rosemary, her tone bitter. “I’m not sure anymore that I know my daughter at all.”

It hadn’t taken much argument to convince Rosemary that she should fetch Sam and Lally from Caspar’s parents, but when she ended the call to Caspar, Gemma saw that her hands were shaking.

“He was vile,” she said, “but he didn’t disagree. In fact, he seemed eager to be shot of them.”

“No word from Juliet?” asked Gemma.

“No. I can’t think—”

“Don’t.” Impulsively, Gemma hugged her. “I’m sure she’s fine. I imagine she just needed some time on her own.”

Nodding against her shoulder, Rosemary said, “Thank you. I’m
glad you’ve come.” Then she stepped back and began to gather her things briskly. Hugh came in, and when Rosemary explained the situation to him, he instantly agreed that they should go.

Jack the sheepdog watched, sensing an expedition afoot, and began to prance from mistress to master, tail wagging furiously. “No, Jack,” Hugh said. “Stay. Guard the house.”

His tone woke Toby, who sat up, disoriented and cross from his impromptu sleep. He rubbed his eyes and began to cry. Scooping him up, Gemma sat down at the table, holding him in her lap while urging Rosemary and Hugh to go. A moment later the front door slammed and the house was suddenly silent, except for Toby’s grizzling.

“Didn’t want a nap,” he cried. “Now everybody’s gone.”

“You didn’t take a nap,” Gemma assured him, stroking his sleep-damp hair. “You just practiced closing your eyes.” She hugged him but he squirmed, refusing to be placated. “Go on, close your eyes,” she whispered in his ear. “Just try it.”

Forgetting to sniffle, Toby blinked slowly.

“See how easily you can do it?” Gemma asked. “That’s from practicing.”

He giggled. “That’s silly, Mummy.”

“No, you’re silly. And not everyone’s gone. I’m here, aren’t I? And that means we can do something special, just the two of us.”

Toby slid from her lap, tears forgotten. “Can we do my puzzle?” Although too young to read the Harry Potter books, he was old enough to be susceptible to the product marketing, and Kit’s gift of a Harry Potter–themed jigsaw had thrilled him.

“Um, okay,” agreed Gemma, deciding she’d worry later about having to dismantle a partially completed puzzle the first time someone needed the kitchen table. “Of course we can.”

Toby tore from the room, and a moment later she heard him pounding up the stairs. The dogs, having returned to the warmth of the stove-side bed, glanced up at the noise. Jack and Tess put their heads down again, but Geordie stretched and came over to her, lay
ing his head on her knee. As she stroked his head, she realized this was the first moment she’d had on her own since they’d arrived. She felt a little odd, alone in Duncan’s parents’ house, as if she were trespassing, but she was glad of the solitude.

Her peace was short-lived, however. She’d just got Toby settled at the table with his jigsaw when the doorbell rang. She had done enough notifications during her days on the beat that she never felt comfortable with an unexpected caller, but this time the instinctive jab of fear was sharper.

It might be Juliet, she told herself, without a key. Assuring Toby she’d be right back, she shut the barking dogs in the kitchen and went to the door, her heart thumping with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

But the man who stood on the porch when she swung open the door was a stranger. Her first thought was that his slightly battered face seemed an odd match for his well-cut blond hair and his expensively tailored black wool overcoat; her second was that he was rakishly attractive.

Eyeing her with equal interest, he said, “I was looking for Duncan Kincaid. Have I got the right house?” His voice held the drawn-out vowels of the northwest, more pronounced than the faint trace Duncan had retained.

“Yes, but he’s not here just now.” Glancing at the sky, she saw that it had grown later than she’d realized. She forced a smile and added, “He should be back very soon, though, if you’d like to wait.”

The caller glanced at the darkening sky, as if gauging the time, then shook his head. “No, I don’t want to impose. Just ask him to call Ronnie Babcock, when he comes in.”

“Ronnie Babcock? You’re Chief Inspector Babcock?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Last time I checked.”

Gemma flushed. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean—It’s just that Duncan’s talked about you.” She stepped out on the porch, offering him her hand. “I’m Gemma.”

The surprised look that followed this pronouncement was worse than his previous bafflement. Then his face cleared and he shook her hand heartily, smiling at her as if she’d just won the lottery. “The old bugger. He didn’t say he was—”

Gemma stopped him before he could go any further. “We’re not. Married. But we live together.” She felt a flash of fury at Duncan, who had obviously not bothered mentioning her, or their relationship, to his old mate. And why should she feel she had to apologize for the fact that they weren’t married?

“Well, he’s a lucky man, in any case,” said Babcock, making a quick recovery with such charm that her resentment evaporated.

“Look, he really shouldn’t be much longer. He’s just gone out for a walk, and it’s almost dark. Why don’t you—”

“Mummy.” Toby’s voice came plaintively from behind her. “Jack’s scratching at the door, but I didn’t let him out. Can we finish our puzzle now?”

“My son, Toby,” she explained to Babcock, then ruffling Toby’s fair hair, she added, “It’s cold, lovey. Go back inside and I’ll be right there.” She pulled the door a little more tightly closed behind her. Jack’s high-pitched bark escalated, and she pictured him hurtling through the house towards the intruding stranger like a black-and-white bullet. Did he bite if not properly introduced?

“It wasn’t important. I won’t keep you,” Babcock told her, and she wasn’t sure whether his quick response meant he feared loss of limb or that he might be drafted to participate in puzzle solving.

“Is it about the baby? The one Juliet found?” she asked.

“Well, yes. I thought he might be interested in the results of the—” He paused, and Gemma suspected he was searching for a more delicate way to say “postmortem.” Her irritation with Duncan flared again. Not that she could reasonably have expected him to tell Babcock she was a fellow police officer if he hadn’t mentioned her at all, but she found being treated like the little woman galling.

“Look,” she began. “There’s no need to tiptoe about with me. I’m—”

A car, which Gemma had vaguely noticed traveling too fast down the lane, its headlamps unlit in the gathering dusk, turned into the farmhouse drive with a squeal of tires.

Turning to watch, Babcock muttered, “What the hell is he playing at, the mad bastard?” But as the Vauxhall came to a stop and the driver’s door opened, it was Juliet Newcombe who climbed out. She walked towards them, her gait a little tentative, like a toddler just finding its balance.

Gemma’s first thought was that Duncan’s sister was drunk. Her second, as Juliet drew near enough for Gemma to see her pale face and wide, dark eyes, was that she was ill, or very shocked.

Babcock seemed to have come to the same conclusion, saying, “Are you all right, Mrs. Newcombe?”

Juliet stopped, staring at Babcock for a moment as if trying to place him. “Oh. It’s Chief Inspector…Babcock, isn’t it?”

“We’ve been trying to reach you this afternoon, Mrs. Newcombe,” Babcock said pleasantly, but he was scrutinizing her closely, and Gemma knew he would be automatically checking for the smell of alcohol, or the dilated pupils indicating drug use. “We need to get a formal statement from you,” he continued, apparently satisfied that he didn’t need to nick her for driving while impaired. “About yesterday evening.”

“The baby.” Juliet’s voice held a faint note of surprise, as if she’d forgotten her discovery, then her face creased with concern. “Have you found out anything? Do you know who she is?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But we need contact information for your crew. If you could—”