Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 11 - Water Like A Stone dk&gj-11

by Water Like A Stone

  “Nevertheless, he’s got to be thorough.” Gemma thought of the horrors discovered in the garden and cellar of Fred and Rosemary West’s Gloucestershire home, a lesson no British police officer was likely to forget. Babcock didn’t know enough at this point to rule out multiple murders.

  “But this will delay construction for months. The Bonners might

  even pull out altogether.” Juliet looked close to tears. “Can’t I at least oversee what they’re doing so that they damage things as little as possible?”

  Her distress seemed to soften Rasansky’s attitude. “I’m sorry, miss. It’s strictly authorized personnel. But this crew’s good, and I’m sure you’ll be compensated for any damages.” He seemed to have recovered some of his assurance, however, and fixed Gemma with a hard stare. “If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, what’s the Met got to do with this?”

  “We’re consulting with DCI Babcock,” she said briskly. “I’d like to have a look round the perimeter while I’m here, but you needn’t trouble yourself. I’ll let you know if I have any further questions.”

  She nodded at him while taking a firm grip on Juliet’s arm and turning her in the direction of the canal.

  Juliet began to protest as Gemma led her towards the humpbacked bridge. “What are we—”

  “I’ve no authority to pull rank on him, or to poke about, and I’d just as soon he not realize it,” Gemma whispered. “But I do want to have a look at the canal from here.”

  They picked their way through ruts and pools of slush until they reached the old stone bridge. “It doesn’t go anywhere,” Gemma said in surprise when they stopped on the slight rise at the bridge’s center. A green- and- brown checkerboard of fields stretched away on the other side, bordered by a distant line of trees.

  “It does.” Juliet smiled a little for the first time that morning. “It gives access to the towpath. There are any number of bridges like this on the waterways.”

  Gemma turned, slowly, as the wind tugged at her coat with probing fingers. The haze that had dulled the morning at Barbridge had condensed into solid cloud, and the gray bowl of the sky seemed to press down on the landscape. The canal beneath them, unruffled by the wind, held the sky in mirrored perfection.

  To the north, a half dozen narrowboats were lined up opposite

  the towpath, their primary colors glowing in contrast to the dullness of the day.

  “Permanent moorings,” Juliet explained. “Leased from the land-owner.”

  From this perspective, Gemma could see that the dairy barn would have a view of these boats, and of the pretty stone bridge, and of the curve of the canal in either direction. Perhaps the place was more desirable than she’d imagined, but that wasn’t what piqued her curiosity.

  She pointed to the north. “How far to Barbridge from here?”

  The distance had seemed to flash past coming by road, and she thought the canal ran more or less parallel.

  “I don’t know,” Juliet answered. “A mile. Maybe a little more.”

  Gemma frowned. “Is there any way to get to the canal by road between here and there?”

  “No. You’d have to cut across the fields. Why?”

  “It just seems odd to me,” Gemma said, shrugging. “Two bodies within such a short distance of each other, and the second following so soon on the discovery of the first.” She turned to Juliet. “Did the woman who was found this morning have any connection with your building site?”

  “Not that I know of. But—are you suggesting her death had something to do with the discovery of that baby’s body?” Juliet’s voice rose on a note of horror.

  “No, no, I’m not suggesting anything, really, just thinking aloud.

  There’s no need for you to be concerned.”

  But Juliet was shaking her head. “That’s too much. If something else holds up this job, I don’t know what I’ll do. I know that sounds horribly selfish, and it’s not that I don’t care about that poor woman who was killed last night. But I can’t make payroll for my crew, and if I lose them, I’m as good as finished.”

  Recognizing the signs of imminent panic, Gemma realized she’d have to put her speculations aside. She threw an arm round Juliet’s

  shoulders and turned her back towards the car, saying, “Never mind that now. The first thing we have to do is get your things. Then we’ll think about what’s next.”

  The cabin door swung open before Althea could knock, and Gabriel Wain pulled her inside, roughly. The salon curtains were tightly closed, and a single lamp cast a circle of yellow light on the drop-down table. The room was as cold as it had been the previous day, and the fire in the stove burned low.

  Althea’s eyes were still adjusting to the dimness as she heard Gabriel’s hoarse voice in her ear. “Is it true? Is it true what they’re saying?

  That she’s dead?” His fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arm.

  “If you mean Annie Constantine, yes, she’s dead.”

  For an instant, she thought she would cry out from the pain in her arm. Then he released her, turning away, and it seemed to Althea that he shrank before her eyes.

  Cradling the oxygen tank against her chest, she rubbed at her arm with her free hand. Now she could see that the children were huddled on the bench by the table, their eyes enormous in frightened faces. There was no sign of Rowan.

  Gabriel spoke to his son without turning back. “Joseph, go up top and tidy up. We’ll need to pump out and fill the water tank. And take your sister with you.”

  The children stood obediently, and as they edged past Althea, she had to resist an unexpected urge to touch the boy’s curling hair.

  When they had gone, Gabriel Wain faced her once more, his expression unreadable.

  “I’m sorry for the trouble you’ve taken,” he said. “But we won’t be needing what you’ve brought.” He nodded at the oxygen tank.

  Althea’s heart thumped. “Your wife. Is she—”

  “Much the same. She’ll be all right.”

  She stared at him. “But she won’t. I thought I explained—” Then

  she realized what he had meant when he spoke to the children, and to her. “You can’t think of leaving,” she said, shocked.

  “It’s best,” he answered shortly. “Now if you’ll—”

  “Mr. Wain, I don’t think you realize how . . . difficult . . . things are going to be for your wife. I can help her. Why would you refuse her that?”

  “We can’t be doing with interference. The police—”

  “Why would the police need to speak to you? What happened to Mrs. Constantine was dreadful, but surely no one would think it had any connection with you.”

  He rubbed a hand across his unshaven chin. “You can’t know that.

  I— When she came to the boat, on Christmas Day. We had words.”

  “Words?”

  “A row. It was Rowan who insisted she come aboard. I’d told her we wanted nothing to do with her, to leave us be. Why should she come poking into our lives, after all this time?”

  “She only wanted to help you.”

  “And where does that leave us now?” he hissed at her, and she heard the despair.

  “With me.” Althea said this with more assurance than she felt.

  But even as she wondered if this man could have done such a terrible thing to Annie Constantine, she rejected it. She would swear the news had been a blow.

  Then doubt niggled at her. Could he have argued with Annie again, struck her in a fit of temper, then left her, not realizing how badly she was injured?

  “Gabriel. Did you see Annie Constantine last night?”

  “No. I never laid eyes on the woman after the two of you left the boat yesterday.” He met her eyes, and she thought she heard a note of pleading under the roughness of his tone.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about,” she said.

  He turned away, suppressing a bitter laugh. “Would that were true.” The boat rocked gently as the children moved about a
bove s

  decks. “I tell you we have to go. The children—we can’t risk staying.”

  Althea considered, running over the possibilities in her mind. He could move the boat, and she could meet them at some prearranged mooring to change out the oxygen—but no. She shook her head at her own stupidity.

  “Did anyone hear you arguing with Annie that day?” she asked.

  “Likely the whole of Barbridge.”

  “Then you can’t leave. Don’t you see? The police will be interviewing everyone in the area. Someone is bound to tell them they heard the two of you in a slanging match, and they’ll take your flight as an indication of guilt. It wouldn’t take them long to track you down—the waterways are finite. You’ll have to bluff it out.”

  “But—what would I say?”

  If Althea had needed reassurance, it was the ingrained honesty of a man who couldn’t manufacture a lie. “Tell them it was a boater’s row. Say she moored badly, and scraped your boat. It wouldn’t be the first time tempers were lost over a bit of bad steering.”

  Gabriel was nodding, agreeing with her.

  “Was anyone close enough to hear differently?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then maybe they won’t take it further. And you mustn’t volunteer that you knew her.” Even as she spoke, Althea wondered what had possessed her. She, who had spent most of her working life helping the police.

  “I’ll get Sam’s things if you’ll gather up Lally’s,” Juliet told Gemma as they climbed the stairs to the first floor.

  The house seemed unsettlingly quiet, unwelcoming, and Gemma thought she must have absorbed some of Juliet’s nervousness. They had checked to make sure there was no sign of Caspar’s car at either house or office before going in, and even then they had stood in the

  entrance hall, listening, before doing a quick recce of the downstairs rooms.

  Chiding herself for being overimaginative, Gemma asked as briskly as she could, “What sort of things should I get?”

  What did it matter if Caspar Newcombe did come home, she told herself. Juliet certainly had every right to be there, and to take whatever personal things she needed.

  Unfortunately, Gemma had seen the results of too many domestic disputes to be entirely comforted by her own commonsense advice.

  “Oh, just undies, a change of jeans and jumpers.” Juliet pointed to the first door on the left of the upstairs hall. “God knows, whatever I chose would be wrong; I thought you might do better.” The strain between mother and daughter had been evident that morning, and Gemma had sensed Juliet’s relief when her parents had taken the children.

  Although she felt much better qualified to pick out boys’ things than girls’, Gemma followed Juliet’s direction without protest. Lally’s door was closed, and on it she had tacked a sheet of paper with a carefully hand-drawn skull and crossbones. Beneath the graphic, she had printed KEEP OUT, then below that, in parentheses, (THAT MEANS

  YOU, SAM!).

  “Sorry, love,” Gemma whispered, and turned the knob. The door swung open and she stood on the threshold, expelling a breath of surprise. She had been expecting openly expressed rebellion—what she found was a room that seemed to bear little imprint of its teenage occupant.

  The walls were rose, the duvet a floral mint- and- rose print, the upholstered armchair by the window a coordinating mint-and-rose stripe. A few stuffed animals sat grouped at the head of the hastily made bed; the framed prints on the walls were variations on horses grazing in dreamily impressionistic meadows. These were a child’s things—had Lally held on to them by choice? And if so, why?

  The room was too tidy as well, except for a few items of clothing tossed haphazardly on a bench at the foot of the bed and the snaggle-toothed appearance of dressing- table drawers not quite shut.

  Sniffing, Gemma caught the faint drift of cheap perfume, the sort that teenage girls bought at Woolworths or the Body Shop with their pocket money, and the normality of it eased her disquiet. She was letting her imagination run away with her again. She certainly didn’t know Lally well enough to make judgments based on something as superficial as her lack of boy-band posters and black drapes.

  The sound of Juliet moving around in the next room, opening and shutting doors and drawers, spurred her into action. Juliet hadn’t given her a bag, so the first thing was to find a hold all or suitcase.

  Rummaging through the wardrobe, the best she came up with was an empty, slightly worn backpack. Setting the pack on the bed, she quickly riffled through the chest of drawers, pulling out folded panties and bras that were little more than bits of lace and padding. She smiled a bit, remembering when she had worn such things so proudly and she and her sister had fought over who needed them most.

  When her hands were full, she turned back to the bed and saw that the pack had tipped over, spilling a brightly colored bit of paper or foil onto the floor. She reached for it absently, then froze as her fingers closed round the small packet and she realized what she held.

  It was a condom, wrapped in colored foil.

  Gemma dumped the neatly folded clothes on the bed and reached for the backpack. She felt inside, exploring the depths until she found the pocket that had come open.

  A sharp edge jabbed her finger, and she pulled out more condoms, a half dozen, their foil wrappers as cheerful as confetti. Sinking down onto the edge of the bed, Gemma thought furiously. Surely the novelty condoms were every schoolgirl’s idea of sophistication, passed giggling from friend to friend at lunch break. Possession didn’t necessarily mean that Lally had a use for them.

  She slipped the condoms back into the bag and picked up the

  clothes, then stopped, her nose wrinkling. There was something else, a hint of a familiar smell.

  This time she protected her fingers with a handkerchief, searching more thoroughly and feeling along the seams of the innermost pockets. Her diligence rewarded her with a bumpy, thumbnail-size packet of cling film. Carefully, she peeled back the clear layers of plastic, but her stomach was plummeting even before she saw what the film held. Tablets. White, unstamped, some oval, some round.

  They could be anything, of course, but Gemma suspected the ovals were Xanax, or a similar tranquilizer, and the round tablets Ecstasy. The round tablets were unscored, and had that slightly homemade look. In any case, she was quite sure neither of the pills was something Lally should have.

  But there was still something more; the smell was stronger now.

  She felt again, and her fingers closed on a softer packet. She knew what it was before she saw the contents. Pot, and a sizable amount.

  She sat, staring down at what she held, until Juliet’s voice came anxiously from the hall. “Gemma, are you almost ready? We need to go, soon.”

  With a jerk, Gemma shoved the drugs into her pocket and stuffed the clothes into the pack, all the while swearing under her breath. She called out, “Coming,” as she hurried to pull jeans and tops from the drawers, adding them to the pack until she thought she had enough for a few days’ wear.

  Then she stopped, her hand on the doorknob, and took a breath.

  What the hell was she going to do about this?

  How could she tell Juliet what she had found, today of all days?

  And how could she not?

  “Juliet . . .” Gemma paused, concentrating on stirring the too-hot-to- taste bowl of leek soup before her on the small café table. Suspect-ing that Juliet had subsisted through the morning on nothing but

  nerves and multiple cups of coffee, she’d insisted that they get some lunch once they were safely away from the Newcombes’ house.

  Juliet had agreed, if reluctantly, and within a quarter of an hour they were seated in the tiny tea shop called the Inglenook, just up Pillory Street from the bookshop. It was a bit late for a cooked lunch, but the proprietor had suggested his wife’s prizewinning soup, and the steam rising from Gemma’s bowl smelled heavenly.

  And it was just as well, she thought, that t
hey’d missed the height of the lunch crowd, as only one other table was occupied, providing the opportunity for a fairly private conversation, if only she could fi gure out what to say.

  It had taken her only a moment’s contemplation to realize that she couldn’t, in good conscience, ignore what she’d found in Lally’s room. She put herself in Juliet’s place—what if someone discovered evidence that Kit had been using drugs, and didn’t tell her or Duncan? She would want to know, and would be slow to forgive anyone who kept it from her.

  That decision made, her first instinct had been to tell Duncan and let him deal with it. She’d realized quickly, however, that that was merely cowardice on her part.

  Gemma took a tiny sip of the soup, which was as good as it smelled, then made another stab at finding an opening. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, knowing what to do with teenagers, even under the best of circumstances?”

  Juliet looked up from her soup, one dark eyebrow arched in surprise, and Gemma was struck by her sudden but fleeting resemblance to Duncan. More often, she’d seen Rosemary in Juliet, and occasionally a smile or a tilt of the head that made her think of Hugh. “I suppose so,” Juliet said slowly, rotating her spoon. “Lally was such a sweet child, always eager to please. And now—sometimes I wonder what happened to that little girl, if she’s even still there.”

  Hearing the pain in Juliet’s voice, Gemma knew she’d struck a nerve. “I doubt Lally knows herself.” She ate a little more of her soup,

  then broke off a piece of crusty brown bread and peeled the foil cover from a packet of butter. “When I was Lally’s age, I remember my mum telling me I must have been abducted by aliens.” Juliet smiled, and encouraged, Gemma went on. “Was Lally having a difficult time even before things got so rough with Caspar?”

  Frowning, Juliet said, “I don’t know, really. It seems as if this entire year’s been hard for her, but now I wonder if there were signs earlier and I simply missed them.”

  Gemma thought of how blind they had been to the problems Kit was having at school, and swallowed a little too hastily. She coughed until her eyes watered, but waved off Juliet’s concern.