Although the fire in the woodstove had gone cold, the radiators still pumped out heat; the lights still shone. A book lay open on an end table beside a half-empty mug of tea. A heavy insulated jacket hung on a hook set into the paneling near the bow doors.
“I’d never have expected a social worker—especially a retired social worker—to have this kind of money,” Babcock said, still ap-praising the luxurious fittings. Put together with the pristine condition of the boat’s exterior and expensively quiet generator, it shouted
“no expense spared.”
“Social worker?” Kincaid was obviously surprised. “She was a social worker? And you knew her?”
“I worked some cases with her. But then I heard she’d retired—
oh, five, six years ago. Dropped off the map. Can’t say I blamed her, after the last case we dealt with together.”
“Rough?” Kincaid asked.
“She’d placed a child in foster care. The parents were drug users, couldn’t stay clean. You know the story. Then the foster father killed the kid. I think she blamed herself, but it was the system.”
Babcock shrugged. “Sometimes you just can’t get it right.”
Kincaid repeated his earlier question. “What did you mean about her name. Was it not Lebow?”
“You’re a per sis tent bastard.” Babcock attempted a smile. “When I knew her, her name was Constantine. I think her husband was a journalist, but I’m not sure. She never really talked about her private
life.” What he didn’t say was that he had been attracted to her. Not that she had given him any encouragement, or that he would have done anything about it if she had. Ironic, that he hadn’t known then that all those years of fidelity were a waste.
He felt another rush of queasiness as he tried to connect the body on the towpath with the woman he had known. Annie had engaged life with an intensity that was seldom comfortable, and sometimes painful, for herself as well as others, of that much he was certain.
“Was she divorced, then?” Kincaid asked, snapping Babcock back to the present.
“That could explain the name change, I suppose.”
Frowning, Kincaid said, “When you knew her, did you ever talk about James Hilton?”
Babcock gazed at him blankly, then realization dawned. “The name of the boat. Yes, we did. I’d no idea she’d remembered.” He shook his head, then scanned the cabin, forcing himself to focus.
“Has anything changed since you were aboard?” The spare contemporary design of the decor made the small space seem larger, and yet it was warmly comfortable. There were, however, no photographs.
Perhaps she had kept mementos and more personal items in the bedroom.
Kincaid shook his head. “There’s certainly no obvious sign of a struggle or an intruder. I’d guess she was interrupted sometime last night—otherwise she’d have washed up.” He gestured at the mug.
“She didn’t strike me as the type to leave things untidy.”
“No.” Babcock walked into the streamlined galley. “There’s no sign of a meal, so either she cleaned up before she sat down with her tea, or she hadn’t yet eaten.” He checked the cupboards and the fridge, finding a few basic supplies, and a generous stock of both red and white wine. “She liked her tipple,” he said, examining labels.
“And she went to some trouble to get it. This is not the plonk you’d find at your local marina.”
“A connoisseur? Or a comfort drinker?” Kincaid mused.
There was no television, Babcock realized. He thought of her, cocooned on her boat in the long winter evenings, and he could imagine that a glass of wine could easily have turned into three or four. “Why such an isolated mooring?” he asked as he moved into the passageway that led towards the stern. “You said she was up above Barbridge when you met her? If she’d stayed . . .”
“You’re thinking wrong place, wrong time?” Kincaid shook his head. “With no sign of burglary or vandalism, or of sexual assault, a random killing seems unlikely. And even up on the Middlewich, there wasn’t another boat moored in sight.”
“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 fl at- 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 unanti
cipated 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 dam-
age 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 mam-moth gray head resting on the rear seat back. Then the head disappeared 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 hard-
won 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 o
ut, 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, trudg-ing 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?”
Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 11 - Water Like A Stone dk&gj-11 Page 25