Then light had spilled out from the cottage window and he had moved toward it, gliding across the familiar lawn as if he were a ghost. All the while the window seemed to recede, but when he reached it at last and looked in, it was not his mother he saw, but Lally. She turned towards him, but her face was pale and featureless, and blood ran from her hands and splashed onto the white floor—
No, it wasn’t a floor, but snow, the blood blossoming in the white
powder like crimson flowers appearing before his eyes, and he was running, running, trying to catch her, but the snow clung to his feet and his legs grew heavier and heavier. Then the dark figure ahead ducked into an opening, and as Kit followed he recognized his surroundings—it was the yew tunnel that ran alongside his friend Nathan’s garden.
Hope had surged in him; this was his place, he could stop her here, keep her safe. But the snow still mired his feet, and even as he wondered how there could be snow inside the tunnel, he realized it wasn’t the yew hedge at all, but a canal tunnel, and it wasn’t snow closing over his head, but water . . .
Then reflex had jolted him awake, but even the memory of the dream made him shudder. Tess whimpered, and he realized he’d gripped her hard enough to pinch. “Sorry, sorry, girl,” he whispered, stroking her, trying to will the fear away. It was just a dream, and it didn’t take much to see where his subconscious had picked up the material. His worry over Lally had merely crept across the barrier between waking and sleeping.
She’d been quiet all the way back to the pub yesterday, ignoring him, ignoring Leo’s taunts about Annie, and when Leo had finally left them at Barbridge, she hadn’t even said good- bye.
They had all been waiting, Duncan and Gemma, his grandparents, Juliet and Sam, but no one had questioned or criticized either him or Lally. On the way back to the farmhouse, and later, as Rosemary had prepared ham sandwiches for tea, the adults had made small talk as if nothing had happened. Kit understood that this was meant to reassure the children, but it hadn’t helped him, and he didn’t think it had helped Lally, either.
After tea, a friend of Hugh’s came to the house and took Juliet into the kitchen for a chat, and although no one said, Kit guessed the man was a lawyer.
Rosemary herded the others into the sitting room for a Scrabble tournament before the fire, but after a bit Lally began to drift away s
from the board between turns, and at last she disappeared altogether. Kit couldn’t concentrate on the board, and when Hugh had trounced him and Gemma beyond redemption, he excused himself and slipped out of the room as well.
The murmur of voices still came from the kitchen, the man’s low and steady, his aunt Juliet’s rising like a breaking wave. Silently, he’d climbed the stairs, and had seen that the door to Hugh’s study, where Lally had slept with her mum the night before, was slightly ajar.
He hadn’t known what he’d meant to say, had pushed the door open without thinking, really. Lally sat on the floor, her back to the sofa bed, the left sleeve of her sweatshirt pushed up to the elbow. She was peeling back a strip of bandage from the inside of her forearm, and a trickle of bright blood seeped from beneath the white gauze.
Then, above the bandage, he saw a barely scabbed-over cut, a horizontal slash in the pale flesh, and above that, another, and another—purple scars, straight as rulers.
“Lally, what are you doing?” he cried out, his voice high with shock.
She jerked down the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Nothing. Don’t you knock?”
“I didn’t know—” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. Let me see what you’ve done to your arm.”
“It’s just a scratch. It’s none of your business, Kit.” She crossed her arms tightly beneath her small breasts.
“It’s not. I saw it,” he insisted. “You cut yourself, and more than once.”
They stared at each other, deadlocked, until at last she gave a little shrug. “So?”
Kit gaped at her, unprepared for the enormity of the admission.
“But—but you can’t do that. You can’t hurt yourself.”
“Why not?” She smiled, then rocked up onto her knees and raised her chin in defiance. “Don’t you dare tell.”
“You can’t keep me from it,” he said, his anger and fear making him reckless.
“Oh, yes, I can.” Her eyes were dark with promise. “Because if you tell, I’ll do something much, much worse, and it will be your fault.”
The memory drove Kit out of bed, but he moved quietly, trying not to wake Toby and Sam as he pulled on his clothes. Although the travel clock on the desk had stopped the day before, its battery dead, the quality of the light and the stillness of the house told him it was early, perhaps just past daybreak.
He knew he couldn’t face the others, that he couldn’t sit across the breakfast table from Lally and pretend that nothing was wrong.
When he was ready, he fished a sheet of paper and a pen from his backpack and scribbled, “Taken Tess for walk. Back soon.” He picked the dog up in his arms and slipped out of the room, leaving the note on the floor of the hallway in front of the door.
He made it out of the house unaccosted. He’d forgotten Tess’s lead, but it didn’t matter, he’d no intention of going near a road. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the fog had lifted in the night and the sky was a clear, pale gold, tinted with rose in the east. The air was cold and fresh, as if the fog had scoured it, and when the sun arched above the horizon, the glaze of ice on tree and hedge sparkled like crystal. The beauty of the sight made Kit stop, and he gazed a long moment, as if he could capture perfection.
Then his stomach rumbled, a reminder that time was passing. He knew he should go back—he didn’t want anyone worrying about him—but when Tess ran on ahead, he followed. Not even the glory of the sunrise had quite dispelled the uneasiness that lingered from his nightmare, and he hadn’t worked out what he was going to do about Lally.
Reaching the Middlewich Junction, he turned south, passing by
the sleeping inn on the opposite side of the canal. It occurred to him that if he went on, he would find the Horizon, and if Annie was up, he could apologize for yesterday. He’d been horribly rude, and he didn’t want her to think he hadn’t wanted to come back. Maybe they could even set a time for later that day.
He was afraid that yesterday’s fog had distorted his perception of the distance, but soon he rounded a curve and saw the Horizon, just where he thought it would be. The blue paintwork gleamed in the morning sun, but no smoke rose from the chimney. Fighting disappointment, he went on, just in case she was up but hadn’t yet lit the stove. Tess had stopped a few yards back to dig in the edge of the hedgerow, but he let her be, trusting that she would catch him up.
No sound or movement came from the boat, and he had made up his mind to turn back when he saw a huddled shape to the side of the towpath, just past the bow. His steps slowed, mired as if in his dream, but he forced himself to go on. Blood roared in his ears; he fought for breath as his brain pro cessed something far worse than any nightmare.
Annie Lebow lay on the towpath, between the foot track and the hedge. One of her shoes rested a yard from her outstretched leg, and he had to resist the urge to pick it up and slip it back onto her foot.
She was on her side, one arm thrown over her face, as if to protect her eyes from the rising sun.
Kit stopped, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat.
The blood that had pooled beneath the blond spikes of her hair was not crimson, as in his dream, but black as tar.
Chapter Fifteen
Babcock had just hung up the phone, after a half- hour argument with the elusive boiler man, when it rang again. His hands already stiff from the numbing cold in his kitchen, he fumbled for the handset without checking the caller ID and barked, “If you’re not here in thirty minutes, I’ll sue for damages when I’ve lost fingers to frostbite.”
“Um, sir. I can be there in five, but I’m not sure what I can do about the frostb
ite.” It was Sheila Larkin, sounding bemused.
Babcock groaned. Holding the phone with his shoulder, he blew on his fingers. “Sorry, Larkin. I’m still trying to get my bloody boiler repaired. Is there a particular reason you’d want to pick me up at this ungodly hour?” His kitchen clock said straight- up eight, a time when he would normally be coming into the office himself, but a third night spent shivering on the sofa had not started his day well.
“Control hasn’t rung you?”
His attention sharpened. “No. What’s happened?”
“Body on the canal, boss. A woman.”
Babcock’s thoughts went back to his conversation with Kincaid
the previous day, and their speculation over the fate of the baby’s mother. “Buried?”
“No, sir. Lying on the canal path. It looks like someone bashed her over the head with a mooring pin. The boy who found the body identified her as a narrowboat own er named Annie Lebow. But oddly enough, it’s not far from the barn where we found the infant.
A bit closer to Barbridge, from what I understand.”
“Access?” he snapped, his mind turning to logistics even as he absorbed the shock.
“The constable says we’ll have to come in from Barbridge. I’m almost to Nantwich, boss. Shall I—”
“No, thanks. I’ll drive myself.” Babcock had ridden with Larkin before and decided it was an experience to be avoided at all costs.
She drove her Volkswagen as if she were trying to break a record at Le Mans. If anyone was going to subvert the speed laws, he’d prefer to do it himself in the BMW. “What about Rasansky?”
“Hasn’t come in yet.” Larkin couldn’t quite conceal her satisfaction.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll ring him from the car. See you at the scene,”
he added and rang off. After a moment’s reflection, he decided to take the time to change. There was no point in tramping the towpath in a Hugo Boss suit.
Less than a half hour later, clad more suitably in jeans, boots, and a fleece- lined leather coat, he swung the black BMW into the main street at Barbridge and slowed to a crawl as he looked for a place to park. Both sides of the road, as well as the lay-by near the humpbacked bridge, were filled with panda cars and already-flocking onlookers. He spotted Larkin’s green Jetta, pulled rakishly half onto a resident’s lawn, but drove past and found a spot behind the pub.
It was at least shaping up to be a halfway decent day, he thought as he locked the car and walked back along the road, if the weak sun held out. There weren’t many things worse than trying to do a crime-scene recovery in the rain.
The pub was still locked and shuttered, with the abandoned look that such establishments seem to acquire even when closed for only a few hours. The same could not be said, however, for the houses that surrounded the inn. The occupants stood on porches and postage-stamp lawns, many still in dressing gowns and slippers, watching the police activity with avid interest.
No doubt at least one of these concerned neighbors had rung the media—the vultures would be arriving soon. Babcock stopped to speak to the constable barring access to the pub’s play area and the bridge that crossed to the towpath, instructing him to have a patrol car block the top of the lane at the turnoff from the main road. The lane’s bottom end, fortunately, dead-ended in a hollow fifty yards or so past the pub. From there one could climb a steep bank up to the section of towpath that ran between Barbridge and the Middlewich Junction.
Turning back, Babcock caught sight of Larkin coming across the bridge. She had her arm round the shoulders of a boy, who in turn held a shaggy brown terrier—it could have been a nice family snap-shot, thought Babcock, until he drew near enough to get a good look at the boy’s face. He was a good- looking kid, maybe twelve or thirteen, slender and almost as tall as Larkin, with rumpled fair hair. But his skin had the almost translucent pallor of shock, and his pupils were so dilated that Babcock couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. Something about the boy tugged at the recesses of Babcock’s mind.
“Boss, this is Kit McClellan. He found the vic—deceased,” said Larkin.
Babcock saw that the boy’s teeth were chattering. “Sheila, you have an emergency blanket in your car?”
“I’ll get it.” As she left them, Babcock noticed that she had for once dressed appropriately for the weather, in trousers and boots, but he found he had rather been looking forward to the sight of Larkin climbing over a stile in one of her short skirts.
“We’ll soon get you warm,” he said to the boy, resisting the urge to put an arm round the kid’s shoulders. He was not one for cuddling children, or witnesses, although he tried to be gentle. And patient, although that was harder. Just now, he itched to get a look at the body on the towpath, but he knew it would wait, and that his first task was to help this boy recall anything of importance. He touched Kit’s shoulder lightly, guiding him down the bridge and onto the grass area near the playground.
“Do you need a lead for your dog?” he asked as Larkin returned with a tiny silver square of insulated blanket. She unfolded the material and draped it like a cape round the boy, who was then forced to free one hand from the dog’s coat in order to clutch the fabric together.
“No—I— She’ll be fine.” The boy lowered the dog to the grass, said, “Tess, down,” and gave her a hand signal. The terrier dropped, but kept her bright button eyes fixed anxiously on her master.
“So you were out walking your dog this morning?” Babcock asked, thinking it rather odd for a boy that age to be out so early voluntarily on a school holiday.
The boy nodded, pressing his lips together in an effort to control his still- chattering teeth.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” Babcock prompted gently, and caught a surprised glance from Larkin. Did she think him incapable of interrogating a traumatized kid? “I’m Detective Superintendent Babcock, by the way.”
“I saw the boat,” the boy said. “I recognized her right off—the Horizon—and I thought I might see Annie—Miss Lebow. But when I got closer, there was something on the path, and then I saw—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I knew she was dead, but I—I went up to her—I had to be sure. Then Tess caught up to me, and I didn’t want her to contaminate the scene, so I picked her up.
“There was a farmhouse in the distance, but it was on the other side of the canal and I wasn’t sure how to get to it, so I ran back here.
The pub was shut, so I knocked on that lady’s door.” He pointed at a large woman watching them from across the street, a coat thrown over her pajamas, and still wearing pink fuzzy slippers. “I asked her to call the police. When the constable came, I went back with him.”
It seemed even kids watched all the crime shows on the telly these days, thought Babcock, surprised at the boy’s easy use of the phrase
“contaminate the scene.” But he had done exactly right, and deserved to be told so. “Good lad. Did you see anything else? Anyone walking along the towpath?”
The boy shook his head.
“The deceased lady—you said you recognized her? Did you know her well?”
“No. My dad and I met her the day before yesterday, when we were out walking. She was . . .” He swallowed again and blinked back tears. Babcock looked away, waiting until the boy went on, with only a slight tremble in his voice. “She was nice. She invited us aboard for tea, and she said if we came back, she’d show me how to drive the boat.” The little terrier whined, sensing the distress in her master’s voice, and inched forward on her belly. The boy knelt to stroke her and looked up at Babcock through a lock of fair hair.
“Can I call my dad now? They’ll be worried about me—I only left a note saying I’d taken Tess for a walk, and that was ages ago.”
“Where do your parents live?” Babcock asked, wondering if the father could provide more information on the victim.
“London. We live in London. We’re only visiting my grandparents for the holiday. I tried ringing from that lady’s house, b
ut I couldn’t remember the phone number, and my dad didn’t answer his mobile.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here for a bit longer,” Babcock told him. He’d want to have another word once he’d seen the victim, and they’d need an offi cial statement from the boy. “But we’ll ring your family, and your dad can come along and wait with you. What are your grandparents’ names?”
“Hugh and Rosemary Kincaid.” The boy said this with a kind of careful formality, as if it were new to him.
The resemblance that had nagged Babcock all through the conversation clicked into sharp focus. “Good God,” he said, as realization dawned. “You’re Duncan’s son.”
Gemma saw Kincaid glance at his watch just as she looked up at the kitchen clock. They’d finished an enormous fried breakfast of eggs, sausage, tomatoes, and toast—God forbid she ate that every morning at home; she’d be the size of a whale and her arteries the consistency of blubber—and had started on second cups of coffee, but there was still no sign of Kit and Tess. When they’d emerged from their room, they’d found his note lying on the hall floor, but they’d no way of knowing whether they’d missed him by minutes or much longer.
She was beginning to regret the languorous hour they’d lingered in bed, the warm nightdress Kincaid had teased her about so mercilessly the night before lying tangled in a heap on the floor. “What if someone comes in?” she’d protested at first, although they’d heard the little boys thundering down the stairs like elephants on speed.
Kincaid had merely laughed, his mouth against her throat. “So?
Do you think we’ll get into trouble?” He pulled away, examining her, and added thoughtfully, “Besides, I like it when you blush. Your skin turns a lovely pink, and it spreads from here”—he touched her cheek—
“to here”—then her throat—“to here.” He trailed his fingers lightly across her collarbone, then circled her breasts. “Just how far down does it go? Shall we see?” His lips followed the path he’d traced, and it didn’t take long for Gemma to forget her embarrassment.
Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 11 - Water Like A Stone dk&gj-11 Page 23