Then she chided herself for worrying. This was Duncan’s territory. He knew what he was doing, and he was certainly capable of finding his way home after dark—this rural landscape was alien only to her.
They had probably stopped to watch badgers, she thought, recalling a snatch of a television sitcom she’d once seen about country life. But no, badgers hibernated, she was quite sure, and she was waffling from nerves.
Juliet seemed to be listening to Toby’s rather confusing version of the rules of Quidditch, but she glanced up as Gemma took out the box of PG Tips. “No, wait,” she said. “Under the sink. Dad always keeps a bottle of apple brandy there.”
Opening the lower cupboard door, Gemma discovered that there was indeed a half-full bottle of Calvados tucked away behind the washing-up liquid. “Handy,” she commented as she poured a generous slosh into the mug she’d intended for Juliet’s tea.
“His emergency stash. Medicinal, he says. He always gave us apple brandy, lemon, and honey for sore throats when we were kids.” Juliet grasped the mug like a life raft and tossed back a swallow. Gasping, she screwed up her face like a child forced to take cough medicine, then took a more considered sip. Color crept back into her cheeks. “You said Mum and Dad have gone to get the children? But Caspar will be furious. He won’t let—”
“He will. Your mum spoke to him and he agreed.” Gemma didn’t add anything else. Having seen a bag of rawhide treats beside the brandy, she fished out three of the pressed bones and distributed them to the dogs. Jack bared his teeth when Geordie and Tess ventured too close, but after circling for a moment, the three dogs found separate corners and settled down with their prizes.
“Mum said she’d bring them here?” Juliet looked both relieved and horrified. “It’s not that I want them going home with him,” she hastened to explain. “Especially when he’s in a foul temper. But—How am I going to explain my leaving to Lally and Sam? I can’t—No one will—” She stopped, shivering convulsively.
Gemma slipped into a chair beside Juliet and tipped a much smaller portion of Calvados into her own cup. Someone would be back soon, either Duncan and Kit or Rosemary and Hugh with the children, and she suspected that if she was to get anything out of Juliet it had better be now. Gently, she said, “Why don’t you start by telling me?”
Babcock climbed reluctantly back into the BMW and sat for a moment, engine idling, letting the heater blow the remains of the engine’s warmth into the frigid cocoon of the car’s interior. He slipped on his gloves, then drummed his leather-padded fingers on the steering wheel.
Something was up with Juliet Newcombe and he didn’t like it one bit. Nor did he like being brushed off, even when it was done as smoothly as it had been by Duncan’s very attractive red-headed girlfriend. She hadn’t wanted Juliet to tell him where she’d been, or why she seemed so upset.
His thoughts strayed to Duncan. What had he expected? That his old mate would be living the conventional suburban married life with a bored but well-preserved wife and surly teenagers in public school? But here he was, apparently cohabiting with this fresh-faced woman young enough to put him in the “lucky bastard” category, and she was sharp as a tack, with an engaging directness. He noticed, however, that she’d referred to the towheaded kid as “my son,” not “our son.” Things were never as simple as they first appeared.
Take the whole situation with Juliet Newcombe. She was the wife of a locally respected financial consultant, recommended for the job on the old dairy barn by her husband’s partner, who just happened to live up the lane, and who had not been at home when the uniformed constables did their house-to-house interviews.
Babcock had instructed the officers to keep trying to reach Dutton, but perhaps he should give Dutton a try himself. Dutton was, after all, the ideal person to offer some unbiased insight into Juliet Newcombe’s behavior.
“Look. You won’t tell anyone else, will you? What I did—it’s not exactly kosher.” Juliet waited for Gemma’s nod before going on, hesitantly. “I went to the office. Caspar and Piers’s. I hadn’t any intention of driving, even, but when I found myself in Nantwich, I realized that I could get into the office while no one else was there. I could look through Piers’s things.” She glanced at Gemma as if expecting censure, but Gemma merely nodded again.
“Does this have something to do with Caspar shouting at you last night?” Gemma asked.
Juliet glanced at Toby, who had gone back to his puzzle, humming quietly to himself as he moved the pieces about. “Yes. But it’s not what you think.” Her voice was bitter. “When Caspar and Piers first went in together, I thought Piers Dutton was the most considerate man I’d ever met. He’d never let me open his mail, or file his paperwork for him. He said he wanted to save me the trouble. Of course, I knew he’d been on his own before, and it was clear from early on that he was particular—even obsessive—about having things done a certain way. I just assumed he was more comfortable doing things himself. And I wasn’t that sure of myself at first—I’d been home with the kids for years when Caspar suggested I come and help out.
“I should bloody well have stayed at home. It’s hard to believe now, but I thought I had a good life, a good marriage.” She gave Gemma a crooked smile. “You’ve got the right idea—don’t get married to begin with, then it can’t go pear-shaped on you.”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Gemma protested. “What changed?” she prompted Juliet, eager to change the subject. “Did something happen with Piers?”
Juliet stared intently at the cottage pattern on her Dunoon mug, as if she might find an answer there. “It was an accumulation of little things, like when you notice a tap dripping somewhere in the house. At first you’re not sure you’re hearing anything at all, then it grows on you until you think you’ll go mad if you don’t find the source.
“He’d take the mail before I finished sorting it. He’d shut his door on phone calls with clients. He kept his file drawers locked.”
“And Caspar didn’t?”
“Why should he? Clients’ investment information is confidential, of course, but it’s not like it’s a matter of national security.”
“Not unless you’re doing something unethical, or illegal,” said Gemma, and Juliet nodded.
“So I started to suspect. I just couldn’t work out what he was doing. And all the while I thought I was crazy for even entertaining the idea. Then, one day, when Piers had gone out to lunch, I noticed that one of his file drawers wasn’t quite shut. I was standing in his office, trying to decide if it was worth the risk to have a peek, when he came back.” Juliet glanced up from the brandy she hadn’t tasted since she’d begun to talk. “I remember I jumped, and I must have looked guilty, but he smiled. Piers always smiles. But, just for an instant, I saw something in his eyes.” She swallowed. “Afterwards, I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it. I suppose I should be grateful I’ve led such a sheltered life that at first I didn’t recognize it for what it was.”
Gemma nodded, understanding what Juliet meant, and why she was reluctant to name what she had sensed. She had seen it, too, only a few times, but those glimpses into the abyss would stay with her for the rest of her life.
Juliet glanced at Toby, who was now flying his puzzle pieces rather than trying to put them together, with suitable sound effects, and seemed oblivious to their conversation. “You don’t expect…,” she went on slowly. “Not in your friends, acquaintances, business partners…” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Not long after that, the way Piers treated me began to change. The friendly hand on the shoulder escalated to pats on the bum; the mildly flirtatious comments got more suggestive. But it was all still subtle enough that I didn’t want to make a scene, so I tried to pretend I hadn’t heard, or that I hadn’t understood what he meant. I started to dread going in to work, or being left alone in the office with him.
“There was something so calculated about it, so inevitable, as if he’d worked out a plan and he never doubted I’d go a
long. But maybe that’s hindsight.”
“But you didn’t go along.”
Juliet met Gemma’s gaze, memory like a bruise in her eyes. Her chest rose and fell more quickly, but she kept her voice low. “He cornered me in his office, one day when Caspar was out calling on a client in Macclesfield. I had to kick him to get him to let me go. It was only after that, when he knew he couldn’t seduce me, that he started to turn Caspar against me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The house stood sentinel at the head of the lane that led to the old dairy barn, the outlines of its four turreted chimneys just visible against the faintly luminescent dusk. The Victorians did themselves proper, Babcock thought as he pulled into the drive, although always at the expense of those less fortunate. He could never see a house like this without thinking of the legions of capped and uniformed maids who had scurried from floor to floor, rubbing their work-reddened and swollen hands against their starched white aprons.
Tonight, however, the house held more than insubstantial Victorian ghosts. Lights blazed from the ground-floor windows, so perhaps he would be fortunate enough to find Piers Dutton at home.
If the house was illuminated, the drive was dark as pitch, he discovered as he climbed out of the car. Muttering under his breath, he picked his way to the porch, where only a dim light burned. If Dutton could afford the upkeep on this pile, surely he could spring for a bulb bright enough to light the entrance, he thought sourly.
Stamping the snow from his feet, Babcock rang the bell. A moment later he was rewarded by the sound of footsteps in the hall, and the massive door swung open to reveal a man he assumed to be Dutton himself. “Can I help you?” the man asked peremptorily, but his tone was more curious than hostile. In designer denim and corduroy, he looked every inch the country gent.
“My name’s Babcock. Chief Inspector Babcock. If I could have a moment of your time, Mr. Dutton?”
For just an instant, Dutton’s face expressed the alarm felt by the most honest of citizens when confronted unexpectedly by the police. Then he smiled and said, “Ah. This is about all the commotion down the lane, I take it.” His accent was the sort of public-school drawl that raised hackles on the back of Babcock’s neck, his manner welcoming, with an easy condescension that was more offensive than Tom Foster’s outright contempt.
Waving Babcock into the hall, Dutton closed the door against the encroaching cold before continuing. “I was out last night and most of today, so I seem to have missed the excitement. I’ve only just heard about it from a neighbor.”
“Would that have been Mr. Foster?”
Babcock must have given something away in his tone, because Dutton gave a conspiratorial grunt of laughter. “I take it you’ve met? A half dozen messages on my BT CallMinder, no less. Tom Foster seemed to be certain I could supply the solution to the mystery.”
“And I take it he was disappointed?” Babcock asked lightly.
“Infinitely. Not only did I not know the identity of the mysterious infant, I suggested he should mind his own business and let the police do their jobs.”
“That must have gone over well.”
“Like the proverbial lead balloon. He rang off in a state of high dudgeon, and I can’t truthfully say I’m sorry. Perhaps he won’t call back for a bit.”
While Babcock might privately agree with Piers Dutton’s opinion of his neighbor, he thought Dutton’s remarks not only rude, but designed to foster a false atmosphere of camaraderie between them. It made him wonder if the man had something to hide or if he simply manipulated as naturally as he breathed. In any event, it would do no harm to let him think he’d succeeded.
“Considering your spirit of cooperation, I assume you won’t mind answering my questions,” he suggested, smiling amiably. “So that we can do our jobs.”
Dutton glanced round, as if considering whether he could keep him standing in the entry hall, then said, “I suppose you’d better come through here.” He led the way into a sitting room on the left—or what Babcock supposed should more properly be called a “drawing room.” You certainly couldn’t say “lounge” in this house.
His first impression, after the relative severity of the hall, was of opulence run amok. The colors ran to rich burgundies and deep blues, and everything that wasn’t gilded seemed to be velvet. But then his eye picked out a leather armchair, and he saw rugs in manly Ralph Lauren–esque tartans draped here and there over the furniture. A large Christmas tree stood by the front windows, and the room smelled sharply of fir.
A half dozen candles gleamed from the heavy mahogany mantel, adding to the flickering warmth of the fire burning in the grate. Babcock thought it was a surprisingly feminine touch—he knew very few men who would bother with candles of their own accord—but there was no other hint of a woman’s presence.
For all Piers Dutton’s apparent disdain for his neighbor, he, like Tom Foster, offered Babcock neither a seat nor a drink. An open bottle of wine stood on a side table, and a half-filled glass on the mantel reflected candlelight from its claret depths, but while Dutton positioned himself with his back to the fire, he didn’t pick up his drink.
A laptop computer sat open on the ottoman in front of the leather chair, but the screen faced away from Babcock’s curious gaze.
When he was a boy, his great-aunt Margaret, annoyed by his ceaseless questions on one of her infrequent visits, had called him “elephant’s child.” It wasn’t until many years later that he’d read Kipling and discovered the source. Time had not cured him of this malady, but at least now he had an excuse for his persistent curiosity. He’d begun to edge casually towards the chair, as if examining the room, but Dutton stepped to the ottoman and snapped the laptop shut.
“Very dedicated of you, working on Christmas,” Babcock said, giving the computer only a passing glance as he displayed great interest in a series of hunting prints on the wall behind Dutton’s chair. “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything terribly important.”
“Just finishing up a client presentation—a little light relief after a day spent with family.” Moving back to the hearth, Dutton regarded him quizzically. “And isn’t that a case of the pot calling the kettle black?”
“But I’ve no choice in the matter,” protested Babcock.
“Somehow I doubt that, Chief Inspector.” Amusement gleamed in Dutton’s blue eyes. Unlike Tom Foster, he seemed to have no trouble remembering Babcock’s rank. “You must have minions to do this sort of thing.”
Choking back a laugh at the idea of telling Detective Constable Larkin she’d been referred to as a “minion,” Babcock said, “The minions have tried several times to contact you since last night, Mr. Dutton. I thought I might get lucky.” He slipped off his overcoat and, without invitation, sat on the arm of the sofa and extracted his notebook from his jacket pocket.
“Ah, down to business, then,” Dutton said, with an air of mock resignation. “How exactly can I help you, Chief Inspector?”
Babcock had his own agenda, and it didn’t include letting Piers Dutton take charge of the interview. “Nice place you’ve got here.” He glanced round the room again, looking as callow and guileless as his battered face would allow. “Although I suspect I’d hate to pay for your central heating. Did Mrs. Dutton do the decorating?”
“I’m divorced, Mr. Babcock. I bought this house after my ex-wife and I separated.”
Babcock whistled. “And here I’m stuck paying the mortgage on my semi—either that or splitting the proceeds with my ex if I sell. Not a pretty prospect.” He shook his head regretfully, then said, “So you live here all on your own, Mr. Dutton?”
“My son lives with me. My ex-wife and I have joint custody, but Leo prefers staying here most of the time. Boys need their fathers, don’t you agree?”
Thinking of what little he had known of his own father, Babcock forced a smile. “No doubt you’re right. And you’ve been here how long?”
“Five years.” Dutton frowned, calculating. “A bit longer, actua
lly.”
“Then you will have known the Smiths, before they moved away?”
“The people who had the Fosters’ place? I met them, yes, but they sold up not long after I moved in. You can’t honestly think that old couple walled up a child in their dairy?” Dutton asked, sounding more astonished than horrified. “They were salt of the earth, Farmer Brown and Wife.”
“We have to investigate all the possibilities, Mr. Dutton, and it’s important that we get in touch with them. Do you know where they went, or how to contact them?”
Piers Dutton raised his brows in undisguised amusement. “Really, Chief Inspector, I’ve no idea. It wasn’t the sort of association one would keep up. And I should think it highly unlikely that they could help you if you do find them. Surely some local kids were responsible, taking advantage of an abandoned building to dispose of an unwanted infant.”
“The body was mortared in. A bit much forethought for a teenager, no matter how desperate, I’d say.” Babcock found it interesting that Dutton also seemed unaware that the child wasn’t a newborn. “Have you not spoken to Mrs. Newcombe?”
“Juliet? No. Although Tom Foster did say that it was she who found this body.” He shook his head with a kind of sorrowful majesty. “A bad business, all round. I’m sorry I—” He stopped, his gaze moving past Babcock’s shoulder.
At the same moment, Babcock sensed a presence behind him, although he’d heard no sound. He rose, turning towards the doorway, as Dutton said, “Leo. My son, Chief Inspector Babcock.”
Babcock saw a young man—no, a boy, he amended after a moment’s assessment, but tall for his age—watching them from the hallway. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, although his face was carefully schooled in an expression of bored disinterest. He was handsome, the angles of his face plainly visible, as his father’s once must have been before the indulgences of middle age blurred and softened his features. Babcock wondered how long he’d been listening.
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