The dog subsided into a sit at the man’s left knee, but whined in protest.
“Are you Roger Constantine?” Babcock asked warily, having backed off a pace.
“Yes. What can I do for you?” Constantine was frowning now, and it occurred to Kincaid for the first time that in their casual clothes neither he nor Babcock radiated official import. The man probably thought they were selling double glazing.
Babcock took out his warrant card and displayed it as carefully as if Constantine were holding a loaded gun instead of the now-panting dog. “I’m Chief Inspector Babcock, Cheshire constabulary, and this is Superintendent Kincaid. Sorry to barge in on you unannounced—”
“Look, if this is about the gang story, I’ve already told your colleagues I can’t divulge—”
“No, this is a personal matter, Mr. Constantine. If we could speak to you inside.” Babcock made a statement of the question, and the first flash of uneasiness crossed Constantine’s face. Kincaid saw now that the white hair and beard had given a misleading impression of the man’s age; Constantine’s face was unlined, and the eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles were sharp and a very pale blue.
“All right,” Constantine agreed reluctantly, and in an aside to the dog added, “You’ll have to wait for your walk, Jazzy.” He turned to the door, motioning to them as he opened it. When he noticed Babcock still hesitating, he said, “Oh. Don’t mind the dog. He’s quite friendly, really.”
Kincaid went first, holding out a hand, palm down, for the dog to sniff. While the dog investigated the scents on his clothes, his tail now wagging, Kincaid took in the interior of the house with equal interest. An archway opened the central hall onto a sitting room to the left. Deep gold walls and white trim set off the gilded frames of pictures and mirrors and a beautiful black-and-white tile floor. Small touches—a potted fern on a stand, a few items of well- made caned
furniture scattered among heavier items—hinted at the Victorian history of the house.
Through an open door on the right, he glimpsed a plum-colored dining room filled with rich mahogany furniture, then Constantine was ushering them into a combined kitchen–sitting room at the back of the house.
Immediately, he saw that they had stepped offstage. This room, while expensively done with the requisite Aga and custom cabinetry, was cluttered with books and papers and used mugs. A laptop computer stood open on the large oak table, and a dog bed festooned with chew toys lay near the stove. The room still held the comforting breakfast scents of toast and coffee, with a faint underlying note of dog.
“I suppose you’d better sit,” said Constantine, scooping papers from two chairs and dumping them onto the already overflowing surface of a Welsh dresser. “Jazz, lie down on your bed,” he commanded the dog.
He took the chair by the laptop himself, and waited with an air of contained impatience for them to get on with whatever it was they wanted.
After a relieved glance at the dog’s retreating hindquarters, Babcock began, “Mr. Constantine, am I right in thinking that at one time you were married to Annie Constantine?”
Constantine frowned. “What do you mean, ‘were married’? We’re still married.”
Babcock flicked a startled glance in Kincaid’s direction before continuing. “Then you and your wife maintain separate domiciles?”
“Yes. She lives aboard her boat, although I don’t see why our marital arrangements are any business of yours. What’s going on here?” There was tension in his voice now, a thread of fear beneath the annoyance. Constantine was a journalist; although Babcock hadn’t identified Kincaid as Scotland Yard, he would realize that
two senior police officers even of local jurisdiction didn’t make routine inquiries.
“But your wife uses the name Lebow?” Babcock used the present tense carefully.
“Sometimes. It’s her maiden name. Look, what’s this about?”
The dog, which had been watching with its head on its paws, sat up and whined.
Babcock sat forward, his eyes fixed on Roger Constantine’s face.
“Mr. Constantine, I’m sorry to tell you that your wife was found dead this morning.”
“What?” Constantine stared at them. Light caught the reflective surface of his glasses, momentarily masking his eyes. “Is this some sort of joke? I just spoke to her last night. There must be a mistake.”
“No, sir. Mr. Cons—”
“It can’t have been Annie.” Constantine gripped the edge of the table, as if assailed by sudden vertigo, and it occurred to Kincaid that in his experience, women often accepted the news of a tragedy more quickly than men. It was as if women carried with them a constant intimation of mortality, while men assumed that both they and their loved ones were invincible.
“I knew your wife, Mr. Constantine,” Babcock said quietly. “I worked with her several times before she retired from Social Services. I identified her body myself.”
In the silence that followed, Kincaid imagined he heard the painful beat of his own heart. Then the dog rose, and the click of its nails on the tile brought a faint relief. It crossed to its master and laid its head on Constantine’s knee.
The man loosed one visibly trembling hand from the table and buried it in the ruff of the dog’s neck. “Oh, no. Christ. What—” He swallowed and tried again. “What happened? Was she ill? Was there an accident with the boat?”
A slight nod from Babcock surprised Kincaid, but he took up the cue. It was a useful technique, handing off the questioning from the person who had broken the news. “It looks as though your wife was attacked, Mr. Constantine. Sometime yesterday evening. What time did you speak with her?”
“Attacked? But why would—”
“I know this is difficult, Mr. Constantine,” Kincaid said. “But if you could just bear with us. It’s important that we get the details.”
He held Constantine’s gaze, and after a moment Constantine nodded and seemed to make an effort to pull himself together.
“It was—it must have been about eight. We’d just come back from our after-dinner walk. I was surprised when I saw it was Annie ringing, because she had just called the day before, to wish me happy Christmas. But she said she wanted to make a date for dinner—
tonight—I was supposed to see her tonight.” Shaking his head, Constantine pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his reddening eyes.
“Did she give a particular reason?”
“No. She just said she wanted to talk.”
Kincaid thought about the reserved woman he had met, and he couldn’t help comparing the almost Spartan neatness of the Lost Horizon with the jumble of this room. It seemed an unlikely juxta-position. “Mr. Constantine, I know you said you and your wife lived separately. Would you say you were estranged?”
“No. At least not in the ordinary sense of having had a quarrel or disagreement, if that’s what you mean.” Constantine seemed almost eager to talk now. “I know our living arrangements seem odd to other people, but our lives just diverged. She likes being on her own—she had some things she needed to sort out, after she left her job. And I was happy enough to stay on here, to look after the house.
We were—we never saw a need to consider divorce.”
“But you talked often?”
“Fairly often. Sometimes I wouldn’t hear from her for a few weeks.
That usually meant she was having a bad time.” Constantine looked from Kincaid to Babcock. “You’re certain she didn’t—”
“There’s no question that your wife harmed herself, Mr. Constantine,” Kincaid said, and saw an easing of the other man’s features.
Why this should be a reassurance, why suicide should seem worse than murder, he didn’t know—perhaps it was that the suicide of a loved one carried with it such responsibility for those left behind.
“Then if she— Was she robbed? I kept telling her— She didn’t have anything of value really, but the boat itself—” Constantine stood suddenly, running both hands through his already bristling white hai
r as if he could no longer contain his agitation.
Babcock stepped in. “There’s no sign that anything was taken from the boat, or from your wife’s person. We will, of course, need you to look things over for us at some point to confirm this.”
“But then—” Constantine’s eyes were wide, the pupils dilated.
The dog nudged his knee, whining, but he ignored it. “Then what the hell happened to my wife?” he said, his voice rising. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Babcock hesitated, and Kincaid guessed he was weighing the disadvantages of revealing the manner of death against his obligation to provide information to a grieving spouse. Constantine had said nothing to indicate any knowledge of the circumstances, and they wouldn’t be able to keep it to themselves for long in any case. “Your wife’s body was found on the towpath, not on the boat, Mr. Constantine,” Babcock said at last. “Someone hit her over the head.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Grasping the chair back, Constantine eased himself into it again without looking, like a blind man. “Why would anyone want to hurt my wife?”
“We were hoping you might be able to tell us that.”
“Annie never harmed anyone— For God’s sake, she hardly spoke to anyone.” Constantine’s tone was accusatory. “She wasn’t—tell me she wasn’t—” His face lost its little remaining color.
With surprising gentleness, Babcock said, “Your wife does not appear to have been sexually molested.”
Constantine dropped his face into his hands and sat, unmoving.
After a moment, Kincaid rose and went to the sink, finding a glass in the second cupboard he opened. As he filled it from the tap, he noticed a dusting of fine white hairs on the dark blue tile of the work top. It appeared that Roger Constantine and his German shepherd shared their house hold with a cat. He wondered if the cat had been Annie’s, and if so, why she had left it behind. He could imagine her with a cat, a tidy beast that echoed her reserve.
The water from the tap was icy and he held the glass for a moment, feeling the coolness against his fingertips as he gazed out the window above the sink. It overlooked the side garden, a swath of green winter grass studded with the bare silhouettes of fruit trees.
In spring, when the trees were in bloom, it must be magnificent.
What could have moved Annie Lebow to give all this up for life on a seven- by-sixty-foot boat, no matter how well outfitted?
He returned to the table and touched Roger Constantine on the shoulder. Looking up, Constantine took the glass and drained it as thirstily as a parched wanderer in the desert.
“Thanks,” Constantine said hoarsely as he set the empty tumbler on the table, then rubbed the back of his hand across his tear-streaked cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—there’s tea if you want.”
“No, we’re fine.” Kincaid sat again, this time in the chair nearest Constantine, and took the liberty of stroking the dog’s thick coat.
“Mr. Constantine—Roger—do you mind if I call you Roger?” Without waiting for Constantine’s assent, he went on, “Roger, do you and your wife own this house jointly?”
Constantine looked a little surprised at the question, but not alarmed. “No. Actually, it’s Annie’s family home. She inherited the place when her parents died. Merchant pirates, she liked to call the Lebows. Her great-great-great-grandfather started with one ship out
of Liverpool, and had built this place as a weekend getaway in the country by the time he retired.”
“Quite an accomplishment.”
“Yes, but Annie was always a little ashamed of the family history. She felt their fortune was built on exploiting the poor. I think it’s one of the reasons she went into social work—as a sort of penance.”
That would explain a good bit, Kincaid thought, including the means for the early retirement and the fact that even her self-imposed exile had reflected the best money could buy. He wondered if she had seen the irony of it.
It also opened up a Pandora’s box of questions, and he saw Babcock sit up a bit straighter, suddenly alert with interest.
“Your wife owned this place in its entirety, and she was content to let you stay here like a lodger?” Babcock raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Yes. We were married, for God’s sake,” Constantine answered defensively. “I told you—”
“It’s a nice deal, you have to admit.” Babcock shook his head.
“My ex should have been half so generous. And who stands to inherit, if your wife was the last of her family?”
“I do, as far as I know.” Constantine stared at him, the color rising in his fair skin. “You’re not suggesting I killed my wife for this house! That’s obscene.”
The dog tensed at his master’s tone, its hackles rising, and began a low, steady growl, just above the threshold of hearing. Withdraw-ing his hand, Kincaid wished he hadn’t sat quite so close to the beast.
“It is a substantial property,” said Babcock, undaunted. “Worth a pretty penny on the market, if one were a bit short of the ready.
Did you carry life insurance on your wife, by the way?” he added conversationally.
After a moment, Constantine answered reluctantly. “Yes. We insured one another, years ago, when we were first married. It’s a small premium—I’ve never thought to change it.” He looked from Babcock to Kincaid, outrage turning to appeal. “Jesus Christ. You can’t think—”
“Mr. Constantine,” asked Babcock, “what did you do last night, after your wife rang you?”
For the first time Kincaid thought he glimpsed a flicker of terror in the man’s eyes. “Nothing,” Constantine said. “I mean, I was here, working on a piece.” He gestured at the books and papers covering the table. “I’m up against a deadline.”
Babcock’s smile held all the warmth of a shark bite. “Is there anyone who can verify that, Mr. Constantine, other than your dog?”
Chapter Eighteen
The tag end of the crime-scene tape rose and fl uttered, briefly animated by a gust of wind, then it dropped, hanging limply beside its anchoring stake as though exhausted by its effort. Gemma and Juliet Newcombe stood outside the tape’s boundary, surveying the ruin of Juliet’s building site.
A sea of muck stretched before them, the sodden ground pock-marked by the treads of heavy equipment and human boots. The prospect was as desolate as the moon, and a good bit messier. Figures in overalls came and went from the shell of the dairy barn, and the sporadic sounds of hammering and banging echoed like shotgun retorts in the cold air.
Juliet stared, her face stamped with dismay, then fury seemed to propel her into motion. She ducked under the tape and set off across the muck like a Valkyrie going to battle. Gemma, with a wince of regret for her London shoes, followed more carefully, wondering what she had got herself into.
Even though she’d urged Kincaid to go with Chief Inspector Babcock, she hadn’t been prepared for the frustration that had gripped her as she watched them drive away.
On returning to the farmhouse, it had been a relief when Rosemary and Hugh insisted on taking the children into the shop with them. Juliet had said quietly that she meant to get some things from her house, as she knew Caspar had an appointment out of Nantwich that morning. Juliet hadn’t asked for help, but her nervousness had been obvious, and when Gemma offered to accompany her, she accepted without argument.
First, however, Juliet had been determined to check on her building site, in hopes that the police would be finished and she could get her crew back to work. That that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon was all too obvious.
“Hey, you!” A beefy man wearing a police safety jacket thrown over his suit had spied Juliet. Breaking off his conference with one of the overalled men, he charged towards them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see this is restricted?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Juliet shouted back.
“This is my job site. What are you doing to my building?”
The man didn
’t need the police jacket for identification—he had
“copper” written all over him, subtitled “copper in a bad temper over his assignment.” His face took on a deeper hue of puce. “Look, lady—”
“It’s not ‘lady,’ ” Gemma said icily, stepping forward. “It’s Mrs.
Newcombe. And I’m Detective Inspector James, Metropolitan Police.”
“Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen Mum,” he answered. “I’m not going to tell you two a—” He stopped, his mouth hanging open un-flatteringly midword, and the florid color drained from his face.
Gemma had pulled her identification from her bag and raised it to his eye level.
“Shit,” he said succinctly, then looked even more horrified.
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize—”
“What ever happened to community policing?” Gemma asked with
cutting sarcasm. “Where I come from, we generally try to establish a good relationship with the tax-paying public, as difficult as that may be.”
“I didn’t know—”
“I don’t care if you thought we were the local bag ladies.” A glance at Juliet’s anxious face reminded Gemma that, while she might be enjoying this little skirmish, it wasn’t doing anything to ease her companion’s mind. She summoned a smile. “Look. Sergeant, is it?” It was an educated guess, considering that Babcock had left him overseeing a less than glamorous job while the DCI hared off after a fresh murder, and his instant deferral to her rank made it unlikely he was an inspector himself.
“Rasansky, ma’am,” he answered, tight-lipped.
“Sergeant Rasansky, what is going on here? Have you found something new?”
“No, ma’am. The DCI ordered a deconstruction crew. Waste of time, if you ask me.”
“Deconstruction?” Juliet grasped Gemma’s arm. “What does that mean?”
“Just what it sounds, I’m afraid,” Gemma answered with a sigh.
“It means that Chief Inspector Babcock thinks there’s a possibility that where there was one body, there might be more. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But—” Juliet took an involuntary step forward, but stopped when she saw Rasansky’s glare. “But that mortar work over the old manger was the only sign of disturbance—”
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