Water Like a Stone

by Deborah Crombie

  “So if someone had been stalking her, it wouldn’t have made a difference?”

  “It’s early days yet, to make assumptions one way or the other.”

  Agreeing, Babcock continued on into the stateroom. It was as neat as the salon, and gave away as little about its occupant. The only photos were black-and-white reproductions of old canal boats. The built-in bed was made, the storage units closed, and there was no sign of personal papers or an address diary. The bedside table held only a book, an alarm clock, and an empty phone cradle. He was about to call out when Kincaid’s voice came from the salon.

  “There’s a mobile phone on the floor, under her chair.”

  Returning to the salon, Babcock found Kincaid rising from his knees. He had left the phone in place, and almost immediately Babcock spied its silver gleam a foot back from the chair’s edge. Kneeling himself, he edged the phone out with the tip of a gloved finger.

  “It’s closed, so it’s unlikely she dropped it in mid-call.”

  “She might have set it in the chair and forgotten about it when she stood up,” Kincaid offered.

  Babcock flipped open the phone and checked the last number dialed. The display read “Roger,” and the number was a Cheshire exchange.

  “Ex-husband?” Kincaid asked, reading over his shoulder.

  “I think so.” He flipped through the phone’s directory; there were no other numbers listed. Taking out his own mobile, he rang control and asked for a reverse look-up on the number.

  “Roger Constantine,” he informed Kincaid with satisfaction when he’d thanked the dispatcher and rung off. “An address in Tilston, near Malpas.” That was the southwest corner of the county, equidistant from both the Shropshire and the Welsh borders.

  “As good a place as any to start. Why don’t—” Kincaid stopped, and Babcock wasn’t sure if it was because he’d realized he wasn’t the one giving the orders or if he’d heard the raised voices from the canal side.

  “Sounds like we’ve got company,” Babcock said, giving himself time to consider. He wouldn’t mind having Kincaid’s input, since he had met Annie Constantine so much more recently. And that would allow him to leave Larkin in charge of the scene here. “But you’re right,” he continued, “visiting Roger Constantine would be the obvious place to start, once I’ve organized the house-to-house—or maybe I should say boat-to-boat. I take it you’d like to tag along?”

  “Boss.” It was Larkin, calling from the bank. “The doc’s here.”

  Babcock left the phone for the SOCOs to dissect, making a mental note to tell Travis exactly where they’d found it, then headed for the bow deck, followed by Kincaid.

  By the time they reached solid ground, Dr. Elsworthy was already examining the body, her back to them. She had perfected the art of balancing in a flat-footed squat. She wore heavy trousers and a shapeless coat, and a few strands of gray hair had escaped from beneath her woolly gray hat. To the uninitiated, she might be mistaken for a bag lady searching for useful castoffs.

  Kincaid, however, seemed unsurprised, and a hush fell over the group as they waited for her to finish.

  When Dr. Elsworthy rose at last, her movements seemed slower than usual, and she held her knees for a moment as if they pained her. She turned, stripping off her latex gloves with a snap, and fixed Babcock with a glare. “As you may have gathered, the victim was struck on the back right-hand side of the head with a hard object, possibly your missing mooring pin. The external shape of the wound is compatible.

  “Lividity is fixed, and rigor is fairly well established although not complete. I think you can assume death probably occurred sometime between six P.M. and midnight yesterday.” Anticipating Babcock’s groan, she pointed a finger at him. “You know the mitigating factors as well as I do, Chief Inspector. A night exposed to the elements would have retarded rigor, as would an unanticipated attack. There are no obvious defense wounds or signs of a struggle, nor indications of sexual interference.”

  As much as it galled him, Babcock knew she was right. If a victim fought his attacker, or ran just before death, the expenditure of ATP in the muscles could bring on almost immediate rigor, while the opposite was true as well. In a victim struck from behind, rigor might be delayed for several hours. There was another factor as well, one that Babcock didn’t want to consider, but knew he must.

  “Doc, was death instantaneous?”

  “That I can’t tell you, Ronnie, although I may be able to say more once I get her on the table.” Elsworthy sighed and seemed to shrink a little inside her oversize coat. For the first time in Babcock’s memory, she seemed human, and suddenly vulnerable. “I can tell you that the position of the body isn’t natural—she didn’t fall that way after the blow.”

  Babcock imagined Annie Constantine, snug in her salon, suddenly feeling the boat drift from the bow. She’d have set down her drink and gone up top, leaving behind her heavy coat. Had she seen that the mooring rope was loose, and perhaps thought her knot had not held? She would have used a pole to push the boat back to the bank, then climbed ashore. Bending to retie the line, she would have seen that the mooring pin itself had gone.

  But someone had been waiting, perhaps crouched in the shadow of the hedgerow. Had her assailant sprung out, hit her once, twice, running away as she struggled up and fell again before losing consciousness?

  Or had he waited long enough to make sure his blow had done its work, then lifted or dragged her a few feet, to leave her lying as if she had simply fallen asleep?

  Beside him, Kincaid spoke quietly, echoing his thoughts. “Why would he—or she—have moved the body? And was she still alive when he did?”

  When Gemma had tucked Kit and Tess into the passenger seat of the Escort, she went round to the driver’s side and started the car. The engine was still warm, and toasty air blasted from the heater vents. Kit let her fold the blanket she’d retrieved around him without protest, and in a few moments, he had stopped shivering.

  “That’s better,” said Gemma, smiling at him as she warmed her fingers in the airflow.

  “You’ll use up all your petrol,” Kit protested, but without much conviction.

  “Better than you catching pneumonia. Or Tess.”

  “Dogs don’t catch pneumonia,” Kit retorted with returning spirit, but then his voice wavered and he added, “Do they?” He pulled Tess a little more firmly into his lap.

  “I’m sure they don’t,” said Gemma, who wasn’t sure at all, having never owned a dog before Tess and Geordie. “She has a fur coat, after all. Remember how much she loves going out in the garden at home when it’s cold?”

  Some of the anxious lines in Kit’s face relaxed. “She’d watch squirrels in an arctic blizzard.”

  “And she’s never been any the worse for it, so I’m sure she’s fine, now.” Indeed, the little dog had closed her eyes, and began to snore very gently.

  Gemma chose her next words carefully. She didn’t want to damage the rapport they’d established, but something had been nagging at her ever since they’d found Kit’s note. “You and Tess were out awfully early this morning,” she said, without looking at him. “Did the little boys wake you?”

  “No. They were still asleep. It was just that I…I had a bad dream.” She heard the effort it took him to keep his voice as casual as hers.

  For a moment, she watched the wind move the tops of the evergreens beyond the bridge. Then she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No!” The response had burst from him. “I mean…I don’t really remember,” he added after a moment, moderating his reply.

  Gemma didn’t press him, but she wasn’t sure if her reluctance was due to sensitivity, or the fact that she was afraid to imagine what Kit’s nightmares might hold.

  Movement in her rearview mirror caught her eye. She watched as a moss-green Morris Minor inched past her in the lay-by, and blinked in surprise as baleful eyes peered back at her from a mammoth gray head resting on the rear seat back. Then the head disappe
ared as the Morris Minor stopped some yards ahead in a spot kept clear by the uniformed constable, and a figure climbed from the driver’s seat. At first Gemma thought it was a rather shabbily dressed man, but a few gray curls peeked from beneath a woolen hat, and she saw a flash of a profile that was definitely feminine. The removal of a black medical bag and the hurried conference with the constable narrowed the identification further. This must be the pathologist. Nothing emerged from the rear of the car, however, and Gemma wondered if she had imagined the beast.

  She turned to Kit for confirmation, but his eyes were downcast, and he was stroking Tess’s head with a studied concentration.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Gemma said gently. If he needed to talk about what had happened, she would give him the opportunity.

  He nodded, but didn’t speak, and Gemma waited with the hardwon patience her job had taught her. At last, Kit’s hand fell still and he glanced at her, then away.

  “She was all right yesterday,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “If I hadn’t—If I’d stayed—I might have stopped it somehow—”

  Gemma’s breath caught in surprise. “You saw her yesterday?”

  “I was with Lally and her friend Leo. She—Annie—asked us to come aboard, but I said no. I didn’t want to take anyone else on the boat. I thought—” Kit stopped, flushing, and scrubbed at his cheeks with the back of his hand.

  Her own throat tightening, Gemma said, “You liked her, and that felt special. You didn’t want to share it with anyone else.”

  Kit shot her a grateful look and nodded.

  “I can understand that,” Gemma continued, frowning. “But why do you think it would have changed anything if you’d stayed? Did you see something, or someone, while you were there?” The car had warmed, and she reached out and switched off the ignition.

  In the sudden silence, Kit said haltingly, “No. But if he—whoever did that to her—if he’d seen me, he’d have known she wasn’t alone, and he might not—”

  “No, Kit, you can’t think that.” Gemma was horrified. What if this woman’s killer had expected to find her alone, and discovered Kit there as well?

  She swallowed, and made an effort to reassure him. “First of all, even if you had gone aboard, you wouldn’t have stayed more than a few minutes. And that was in the middle of the afternoon, wasn’t it, when you went after Lally?”

  Kit nodded, and Gemma continued, “From what you’ve told us, I’d say it was very unlikely your friend was killed during the day.” The violence of the crime made it more probable that it had been committed under cover of darkness, although there was no guarantee. She suddenly wished desperately that she could see the crime scene and hear what the pathologist had to say. Had the murder been random, combined with a sexual assault or a burglary gone wrong? Or had this woman been targeted?

  None of these were speculations she could share with Kit, nor did she feel she could interrogate him about the state of his friend’s body. She would just have to wait for Kincaid’s report. There was one thing, however, that she could pursue.

  “Kit, you said that he might not have hurt her if you’d been there. Did you see something that made you think Annie’s attacker was a man?”

  “No, but…” His cheeks grew a little paler. “I suppose I just didn’t think a woman could have done…that.”

  Gemma wished she still had his innocence, that she hadn’t seen firsthand the damage that women could do. And yet, statistically, he was right—an assault was more likely to have been committed by a male.

  From her side mirror, Gemma saw that the pub had apparently stirred to life. A woman came out, bearing a large thermos and a stack of polystyrene cups, and headed towards the nearest uniformed officer.

  Raising her hand, Gemma placed the backs of her fingers gently against Kit’s cheek, and found his skin still cold to the touch. “Look, the publican’s bringing out hot drinks,” she said. She recognized the woman who had been serving at the bar the previous afternoon. “Shall I fetch you something?”

  “No. I had some coffee earlier.” Kit grimaced. “One of the neighbors made a cup for me. It wasn’t at all like we make at home.” Kit liked to cook breakfast on the weekends, and they had bought an espresso machine primarily so that Kit and Toby could have steamed milk as a special treat, Kit’s mixed with a bit of coffee. Homesickness shot through Gemma like a physical pain, and she could only imagine how Kit must be feeling.

  “I think I’ll have some myself, then. Back in a tick,” she added as she took the excuse to slide out of the car, not wanting him to see her face.

  She introduced herself to the uniformed officer, showing him her police ID, and to the manageress of the pub. She was sipping what turned out to be scalding-hot and quite respectably good coffee when she saw movement on the bridge. It was the pathologist, trudging back towards her car with her bag, her face set in an abstracted scowl.

  “The good Dr. E. looks even less happy than usual,” the constable muttered.

  “Dr. E.?” asked Gemma. “She’s the Home Office pathologist?”

  “Dr. Elsworthy.” He raised his cup and drained it without a wince before handing it back to the pub’s manageress. Gemma thought his mouth must be lined with asbestos. “Ta,” he said. “I’d better get back to my post. Don’t want the doc to set her dog on me.”

  “So I did see a dog,” Gemma murmured to his retreating back.

  The manageress gave her an odd look, but asked, “Is it true that someone’s been killed?” It was clear her agenda didn’t include the discussion of dogs, imaginary or otherwise. “Do you know who it is?”

  “The police won’t release that information until family have been notified, ma’am,” Gemma answered, avoiding the second question, at least. There was no hope of stonewalling on the first—the human grapevine worked too well.

  “I don’t know what this will do to my lunch business,” the woman said with a sigh. “The roadblock will keep the clientele away.”

  “I’m sure your customers will find a way to get here. Curiosity will overcome a little minor inconvenience, believe me,” Gemma reassured her. “This will be gossip central, once the news gets round, and you might be prepared for some journalists, too.

  “That’s true.” The woman brightened, then frowned again. “I wonder if I’ve enough laid in. I’d better start prep, then.” With a distracted nod at Gemma, she turned back to the pub, leaving Gemma with her still-scalding cup of coffee.

  “Thanks,” Gemma called after her, belatedly. Turning back to the car, she saw that Kit had leaned back against the headrest, his eyes closed, his lips parted in the relaxation of unexpected sleep. He looked as young and defenseless as Toby, and her chest tightened with a fierce, possessive love. She would have done anything to protect him from this—Kit, the last person who needed another blow, another loss, in his short life.

  She stood irresolute, not wanting to wake him by getting back into the car, sipping her coffee and gazing at the boats along the canal bank. Lined up nose to tail, they reminded her of a drawing of circus animals leading one another in a parade in one of Toby’s books.

  She had seen narrowboats on the Grand Union Canal near the supermarket where she shopped at home, but had never been aboard one. Those had charmed her with their rooftop flowerpots and haphazardly strung laundry, their slightly shabby air of rakishness.

  Most of the boats below, however, were buttoned up against the cold like sensible matrons, and looked rather forlornly abandoned. But a spiral of smoke issued from the chimney of one of the more colorful crafts, and as she watched, a man came out of the cabin and looked round, briefly, before going back inside.

  The sound of a car door slamming made Gemma turn, thinking that Kit had awakened, but to her surprise she saw the doctor climbing from her car once more. This time she held not her bag, but some sort of bulky equipment that on closer inspection Gemma thought was an oxygen tank.

  The doctor crossed the bridge again, but rather than t
urning right, she went to the left, back towards the boats clustered across from the pub. She stopped beside the brightly colored narrowboat Gemma had noticed before and seemed about to call out, but before she could speak, the cabin door opened.

  This time, Gemma caught a glimpse of a curly-headed child, then the doctor climbed awkwardly aboard and went inside. Since when, Gemma wondered, did pathologists make house calls?

  A touch on her shoulder made her jump, but even as she drew breath to gasp, Kincaid said, “Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. You were miles away.”

  Turning, she examined his face. His voice had been even, uninflected, but she detected a familiar undercurrent of tension. “Was it bad?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the crime scene.

  “Mmmm.” He made a noise of assent in his throat. “No sign of sexual interference, though, thank God. At least Kit was spared that. And not much blood, other than beneath the head. But…” He stopped, jamming his hands in his coat hard enough to tear holes in his pockets, not meeting her eyes. “But I can’t imagine, when he saw her lying there, that he didn’t think of his mum. How is he?”

  Gemma looked back towards the car. Kit’s head had tilted to one side as he’d fallen into a deeper sleep, and Tess had moved to the driver’s seat. “He’s exhausted,” she said. “As much from trying to hold himself together as anything else, I think. We need to get him home.”

  “Home.” Kincaid repeated the word under his breath, frowning, as if making sense of a foreign language, and gazed abstractedly at the canal.

  “What—” Gemma had begun, when he turned to her and gripped her shoulders with almost painful force.

  “Right,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. As soon as Babcock gets Kit’s statement, we’ll pack up and head back to London. There’s no reason we should stay here, no reason Kit should be involved in this any further. We can go home.”