“I think you had better start from the beginning,” he said, his patience forced.
“Gabriel didn’t tell you?”
“I want to hear it from you.” And he did, not just to verify Wain’s story, but because he still couldn’t quite believe that the Dr. Elsworthy he had known had strayed so far off course.
“I knew Annie Constantine when she worked for Social Services. Not well, but I found her competent, and professional, and we got on together. The last case we worked together was a bad one, though—the one where the child was killed by his foster father, do you remember?
“I could tell Constantine was having a difficult time, possibly even suffering some posttraumatic stress, so I wasn’t all that surprised when a few months later I heard she’d taken early retirement. After that, I didn’t hear from her, or of her, until two days ago, when she showed up at my door as I was leaving for the morgue.
“How she got the address of my cottage, I don’t know—perhaps she had some of the same connections as you, Chief Inspector.” For the first time, he heard a trace of her wry humor.
“She seemed quite distraught,” the doctor continued, “and wouldn’t be brushed off, so in the end I agreed to listen to her. She said she needed help, that one of her former clients was gravely ill but refused to seek any medical treatment. Then she told me what had happened to Rowan Wain and her family.
“Well, I know the doctor who filed the MSBP complaint against Rowan. He’s a self-serving little shit who, when a case is beyond his competence, looks for someone else to blame.”
Babcock, who had never heard the doctor swear before, found himself slightly shocked.
“It wasn’t the first time he’d used a diagnosis of Munchausen by proxy,” she said, an undercurrent of anger in her voice, “and the other parents might have been blameless as well, but they didn’t have Annie Constantine to go to bat for them. They lost their children.
“As Constantine spent time with the Wains, she became convinced that the boy, Joseph, really had suffered from life-threatening seizures, and that the parents had only turned to the medical establishment in desperation.
“It seems she made a crusade of proving their innocence.” Elsworthy paused, and Babcock imagined her frowning, as she did during a postmortem when she didn’t like what she was seeing. “I suspect she needed a crusade,” she went on, slowly. “The murdered foster child had been in her care, and when the natural parents reported after their visitations that they suspected abuse, she dismissed their claims as no more than a manipulative effort to get their child back. They were drug users, you see, and not terribly dependable.”
Babcock had worked that case, and remembered it all too well. The natural parents had lashed out at everyone involved in a fury made all the more vicious by the fact that they, too, had failed their child. No wonder Annie Constantine had felt a need for atonement.
“Her determination paid off,” Elsworthy continued. “Eventually, she found corroboration, both from witnesses who had seen the seizures and in hospital records that the doctor reporting the suspected abuse had somehow missed. She got the case dismissed.”
“So how does all this tie in with what happened these last few days?” asked Babcock.
“Chance,” said Elsworthy. “It was pure chance that she motored past the Wains at the Middlewich Junction on Christmas Eve. It’s surprising, I suppose, that she hadn’t run into them before. The waterways are a fairly self-contained world.
“She spoke to them, and although the children seemed well, she thought Rowan looked really ill. The more she thought about it, the more concerned she became. It was when she went back that she and Gabriel had the row, but in the end he agreed to let her see Rowan, who had worsened even in that short time. Annie became convinced that Rowan would let herself die from an untreated illness rather than expose her family to the system again. That’s when she came to me, asking me to examine Rowan, off the record.”
“And was she right? About Rowan’s illness?”
Elsworthy sighed and lowered her voice, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “Unfortunately, she was more than right. Rowan Wain is suffering from advanced congestive heart failure. She might have been helped, if it had been caught early, but even then she would have had to agree to a transplant. Now it’s much too late for that, even were she willing.”
Babcock digested this. “So Rowan Wain really is dying?”
“Yes. All I can do is make her a bit more comfortable. I promised Annie Constantine I would do that, and that I would treat Rowan without calling in the authorities. Then, when Annie was killed, I felt I had to honor my obligation, both to her and to Rowan…”
It was, Babcock suspected, as close to an apology for her behavior as he was going to get. “And when you heard Annie Constantine had been murdered, you never thought Gabriel Wain might be involved?”
“No! Why would Gabriel Wain want to harm Annie? He owed her his family, and more.”
“What if Annie discovered he was connected with the infant we found in the barn?”
“Gabriel?” The doctor’s voice rose in astonishment.
“He did mortar work in the dairy not long before the Smiths sold the place. We’ve narrowed the time frame for the interment to between five and ten years, so it would fit.”
“I don’t believe it,” Ellsworthy said with utter commitment. “I don’t believe Gabriel Wain could have murdered a child. It’s bound to be coincidence, Chief Inspector, just as it was coincidence that Annie met the family again on Christmas Eve.”
And coincidence that two days later she was dead, he thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. There was no use preaching to the converted. Instead, he asked, “Doc, did Annie Constantine say anything to you about the child in the barn? Or you to her?”
“No, she didn’t mention it. And neither did I,” she added, sounding incensed that he should question her discretion, as if she hadn’t violated a half dozen ethical rules in the last few days.
“One more thing, Doc,” he said lightly, as if it were of no great import. “Do you have the children?”
The silence on the other end of the line was so profound that for a moment he thought she had severed the connection. Then he heard her draw in a breath. “Yes. Yes, I have the children. I though it best, under the circumstances.” She hesitated again, then said quietly, “Ronnie, leave them be. And promise me that if you feel you must take Gabriel Wain in for questioning, you’ll let me know. Someone needs to stay with Rowan.”
“If you’ll make me a promise, Doc,” he returned, unable to imagine calling her by her first name. “Tell me the truth from now on.”
He’d just rung off when he heard a tap on his door and Sheila Larkin peered in. “Got a minute, Guv?” When he nodded, she came in and sat demurely in his extra chair. She was dressed rather sensibly again today, in trousers and a warm jumper. A good thing, he supposed, especially as they’d stood around on the freezing towpath for half an eternity, but he found he missed watching her struggle to sit in a short skirt without revealing her knickers. “So has our doc gone completely off the rails, then?” she asked with relish.
“She had her reasons,” he said, surprising himself. “And they’re mine to know,” he added, putting Larkin firmly in her place, then grinned. “But you can run down a couple of things for me.”
“Yes, sir, Guv’nor, sir.” Larkin saluted.
“I want you to find out anything you can about the doctor who filed the MSBP allegations against Rowan Wain. And then I want you to find out what happened to the parents of the little boy who was beaten to death by his foster father.”
Babcock was treating Kincaid and Gemma to the dubious pleasure of a late lunch at the Subway shop near the Crewe railway station when his phone rang. It was Rasansky, sounding jubilant.
“Preliminary from the fraud lads says you were right, Guv,” he said. “They’ve just reviewed the Constantines’ files and a few others, but it looks as though Dutton has been ski
mming. It’s certainly enough to have another word.”
Surveying the remains of his chicken breast on Parmesan bread, Babcock bundled it into its wrapper and tossed it into the nearest bin. “I’m on my way. Meet me there, and bring a couple of uniforms along for backup, just in case.”
“What’s happened?” Kincaid asked even before Babcock had disconnected. “Is it Wain?”
“No.” Babcock couldn’t resist a smile. “It’s Piers Dutton. It seems your sister was right.” He watched the emotions chase each other across his friend’s face—first satisfaction, then dismay as he realized the implications. “And no,” he continued, forestalling what he knew would come next, “you can’t come with me to interview him, either of you. You’ll just have to trust Cheshire CID to manage.”
Kincaid’s struggle not to argue was visible, but he was too experienced an officer not to know the difficulties his direct involvement could cause.
Gemma, Babcock saw, had shown no pleasure at Juliet Newcombe’s vindication. She listened without expression, all the while carefully folding the paper wrapper round her barely touched food.
“Why don’t the two of you wait for me at the station?” he suggested. “You can help Larkin with the files. Just don’t let her boss you around too much,” he added. “She’ll be insufferable if she thinks she can lord it over two detectives from the Big Smoke.”
Piers Dutton had stopped protesting the ransacking of his office. He stood in the reception area, watching tight-lipped as uniformed officers carried out the remainder of his files in boxes, and didn’t acknowledge Babcock’s entrance with so much as a blink.
“Sorry about the inconvenience,” Babcock said cheerfully. “Moving is always so disruptive, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Dutton?”
Dutton compressed his lips further, but the silent riposte wasn’t in his nature, and after a moment he gave in to the temptation to retort. “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor, Chief Inspector. And don’t think you won’t regret this.”
“I’m surprised your solicitor isn’t here already. Have a bit of trouble running him down?”
“He was on holiday,” Dutton admitted reluctantly. “Not that it will matter, as there’s no question that what you’re doing here is illegal.”
“I can see why he wouldn’t be anxious to give up his post-Christmas amusements to deal with your spot of trouble.”
“Now see here, Babcock. I’ve rung your chief constable—”
“Yes, I’ve rung him myself, Mr. Dutton. He wasn’t too keen on the idea that he’d been playing golf with a swindler, especially as it seems you convinced him to make one or two small investments.” Babcock shook his head in mock dismay. “You wouldn’t have been so foolish as to skim a percentage off the chief constable’s account?”
Dutton quite wisely clamped his mouth closed on that one, but Babcock thought he looked a little pale. “And by the way, Mr. Dutton,” he added, “I don’t appreciate being threatened. I think you’ll find that sort of thing doesn’t win you any friends—especially if I should mention it to the custody sergeant at Crewe headquarters.”
“What are you talking about?” Dutton’s voice rose to a squeak of panic.
“You’re going to be our guest, Mr. Dutton, while we talk about Annie Lebow.”
“But you can’t—”
“I can. Twenty-four hours without charge, and then we’ll see where we are.” Babcock stepped closer, into the other man’s comfort zone. “You’re going to tell me about every contact you ever had with Annie Lebow, or with anyone connected with Annie Lebow. And then you’re going to take me through every second of your time the day before yes—”
“Boss?” Rasansky pushed open the door. “Mr. Newcombe’s here. He wants to—”
But Caspar Newcombe didn’t wait to have his mission announced. Shoving Rasansky, who outweighed him by a good two stone, aside, he barged into the room.
“Hey, you can’t—” Rasansky began, but Newcombe had already turned to Babcock.
“You’re in charge here? What is this? What do you think you’re doing?” He was wild-eyed with outrage, and his breath told Babcock he’d had a fortified lunch. “This is our business. You can’t just take things away. Piers, you’ll tell them—”
“Mr. Newcombe.” Babcock stepped back, out of range of Newcombe’s uncoordinatedly swinging arms. He knew Caspar Newcombe by sight, had even been briefly introduced to him once over drinks at a Nantwich pub, but he doubted the man remembered his name or title. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Babcock. Did your partner not tell you we had some questions about his accounts? Or that one of his clients was murdered night before last? And that unfortunately, it appears that Mr. Dutton had been helping himself to a percentage of her profits without permission?”
“What?” Newcombe’s thin face went slack with shock. “You can’t be ser—”
“Annie Lebow. Or Annie Constantine, according to your records. Mr. Dutton will be helping us with our inquiries.”
Newcombe turned to Dutton like a child asking for reassurance. “Piers, this can’t be true—”
“I’m afraid it is true that Annie Constantine was murdered, Caspar, but I had nothing to do with it,” Dutton said, his voice even, soothing.
“And you haven’t—”
“Of course not. I’m sure the police will find it’s all a misunderstanding, perhaps a bookkeeping error. Juliet sometimes—” Dutton stopped and shrugged, and Newcombe nodded, accepting the implication without protest.
He turned back to Babcock and regarded him owlishly. “Night before last, you say?”
“Yes.”
Newcombe drew himself up to his full height. “Then you have no reason to harass my partner, Inspector. Piers was with me the entire evening.”
From the corner of his eye, Babcock saw the flash of dismay on Dutton’s face.
Juliet wanted nothing more than a hot bath. Her entire body felt as if it had been stomped on by a rugby team, due, she suspected, to her daylong efforts to put a good face on her rising internal panic.
She’d begun by taking her foreman, Jim, to the building site, and while she viewed the aftermath left by the deconstruction crew with horror, he’d stood shaking his head in a wordless dismay that made her feel even worse.
Leaving him to it, she’d retreated to her van and, forcing a smile on her face, had rung the Bonners in London and told them cheerfully that it would take only a few days to get back on schedule.
Her clients were already jittery over the idea that their future home had been used as a burial ground for a child, and Juliet was afraid that with the snowballing delays, they might cut their losses and pull out altogether. When her thoughts strayed down that path, her heart began to pound.
Keep things in proportion, she’d told herself, turning up the van’s heater in hopes that air from the still-warm engine would stop her teeth chattering.
There would be other jobs. She and the kids wouldn’t starve—they could stay with her folks as long as necessary, and it was only her pride that would suffer. And if worse came to worst and her business failed, she could find another job. She had skills; she’d managed Caspar’s office efficiently enough—in spite of Piers—and she’d made a good bit on the side doing small fix-up projects for friends.
Somehow, she had to get herself through the day. Confine her thoughts to minutiae, concentrate on the sequence of steps required to get her project back on course.
For a moment, her hatred of Piers Dutton squeezed her chest like a python, and she swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. It occurred to her that she’d never known true hatred before. If she’d thought about it at all, she’d imagined it as cleansing, a pure emotion unadulterated by the burden of fairness or compassion.
But it was corrosive, spilling over into every facet of her life, poisoning all her relationships. It kept her from forgiving Caspar his weakness; it kept her from telling her brother and Gemma that she understood they’d only done what they felt they mus
t. And it was keeping her from reassuring her children that she loved them, especially Lally.
The thought pierced her heart. She’d sniffed, wiped her eyes, and gone back to the job site determined to do better, to keep focused on the things that really mattered.
But by midafternoon, when she’d picked Lally and the two younger boys up at the bookshop, her daughter’s sullen withdrawal only made her angry again.
She knew Lally had been hurt by her grandfather’s singling out Kit for this morning’s trip to Audlem—she’d felt a stab of jealousy herself that shamed her—but all her attempts at engaging the girl in some sort of ordinary conversation had failed so miserably that even the boys had become quiet, embarrassed.
When they reached the house, they’d found Kit and Hugh just back from their expedition, red cheeked and irritatingly cheerful. Hugh had lit the fire in the sitting room, and had dared the boys and Lally to take him on at Monopoly, but Lally had disappeared upstairs, refusing to join in. When Juliet called after her, she’d pretended not to hear.
Juliet sank down on the bottom step, desolation settling over her. She tried to force her cold fingers to unlace her work boots, but stopped halfway through. Suddenly even the longed-for bath seemed more than she could manage. Perhaps she’d have a nip from the bottle of brandy her dad kept under the kitchen sink, just to get herself going, she thought, and she’d just pushed herself upright when the doorbell rang.
She knew, with the absolute certainty born of dread, who it was. The dogs barked in chorus, and when her dad looked out of the sitting room, she waved him back and said, “It’s for me.”
Opening the door, Juliet stepped out onto the porch and faced her husband.
Her first thought was that he looked diminished, much less frightening than her imagination had painted him after his attack on her in the pub. His chest seemed to have sunk, his cheeks were unshaven, but his eyes glittered so feverishly that any hopes she had had that he’d come to apologize were quickly dashed.
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