“Reason?” Juliet had come up against the other chesterfield, but showed no inclination to sink into its cracked leather depths. “The only reason I can see is that I should never have told Gemma, and she should never have told you. How could you possibly think I’d agree to implicate my husband in a murder inquiry?”
“You’d not be implicating Caspar in anything. It’s his partner who’s done the fiddling, according to what you told Gemma,” he countered, trying to keep his patience. Although Gemma had warned him Juliet would react this way, he hadn’t been prepared for her fragility, or for the edge of hysteria in her voice. He went on quietly, trying to stay reasonable himself. “Look, Jules. You’ve said you’ve seen proof that Piers Dutton was skimming money from his investors’ accounts. If Annie Lebow was Piers’s client, and if she somehow found out he was cheating her, he’d have had a bang- up motive for killing her. You can’t—”
“I don’t care. I won’t help you ruin Caspar’s business for some pie- in- the- sky idea of yours—”
“You don’t care?” Standing, he crossed to the hearth and stabbed at the cold grate with the poker. “How can you say you don’t care that this woman was murdered? You didn’t meet her. You didn’t see her body lying on the towpath this morning, or see Kit’s face after he found her.”
For the first time, Juliet looked ashamed, but she didn’t relax her stance. “That’s not fair. That’s not what I meant and you know it.
You always twist things. But I won’t have the children jeopardized.
Have you thought what it would mean for Sam and Lally if their
father’s business and reputation were ruined? They’re your niece and nephew, for God’s sake, or had you forgotten?”
The fairy lights on the Christmas tree in the corner twinkled, but the room was as cold as the fire, and Kincaid remembered, suddenly, the bitter arguments he and his sister had had in this room over long-ago differences. “Of course I hadn’t forgotten,” he said, tasting the ashes of one more unresolved quarrel. “But those things might not happen, and even if they did, they’re not insurmountable. You can recover from a financial crisis, from a damaged reputation—even from a failed marriage—and the children can deal with more than you think. But nothing can give Annie Lebow’s life back to her, and I won’t let go any opportunity to find her killer.”
They stared at each other, deadlocked, and after a moment Juliet’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re a self-righteous shit, Duncan.
You always were. You can say what you want, but I’ll deny I found anything.”
“It doesn’t matter. Ronnie Babcock can get a warrant to search Newcombe and Dutton’s files on the basis of the connection between the firm and the victim. All he needs is a nod in the right direction. And he’ll be interviewing Piers and Caspar, regardless.”
Juliet shook her head, once, and wrapped her arms tightly around her thin body, as if the cold had seeped into her bones. “Don’t think I’ll forgive you for this.”
He sighed, his anger evaporating. “I’m sorry, Jules, but I haven’t a choice. Now will you make the call, or shall I?”
There was something in the quality of silence that told Caspar the moment he opened the door that the house was empty. He stood for a moment in the foyer, listening, trying to define the difference. Had the mere physical presence of the children in their rooms, of Juliet working on her accounts at the kitchen table, created a resonance he had never noticed?
It wasn’t that he’d really expected his family to have come home, he told himself as he hung his coat carefully in the cupboard, it was just that the habit of having them there was so ingrained in his mind that it took a conscious effort to refute it.
Even though he’d already had a few drinks at the Bowling Green with Piers, he went into his study and poured himself a good finger of Cardhu single malt. It was a whisky he hadn’t tried before, recommended by Piers, and he’d treated himself to a bottle partly because he knew the expense would annoy Juliet—just as his retreating to his study to have a drink as soon as he got home had annoyed Juliet.
Now he stood, irresolute, unable to decide whether to sit at his desk, although he really had no pressing work to do, or to wander into the kitchen or sitting room. He could turn on the telly, after all, without being sniped at by the children for interrupting one of their programs, or nagged to help them with their schoolwork. He could make himself cheese on toast for supper, if he chose, and leave the washing up for tomorrow, or even the next day, without Juliet giving him the evil eye and an exasperated sigh.
But there didn’t seem much point in doing any of those things if there was no one to object, and he felt suddenly, frighteningly hollow, as if his insides had been scooped out like the pulp of a ripe melon.
Afraid his legs wouldn’t support him, he groped for the arm of his chair, and after lowering himself carefully into it, topped up his glass with another inch of Cardhu.
The neat whisky seared his throat and warmed his gut, and after a few sips he began to feel more substantial. The house wouldn’t be empty for long. Piers had warned him over their drinks that if Juliet was determined to split up, then he must get custody of the children, and that her financial status should be enough to convince a court that he was the more responsible parent. Caspar had agreed, adding that he’d see her stripped of every penny, but only now did he begin to wonder what he would do with the children if he had them. Juliet
had managed and organized and seen to all their needs, and for just an instant his own ignorance terrified him.
Then he shrugged and knocked back the remainder of his drink.
Lally and Sam were old enough; they could manage without such coddling. What was important was that Juliet be made to see the error of her ways, and to pay.
A small bloom of satisfaction began to replace the emptiness in his gut. He had been right to listen to Piers. Piers had seen Juliet for the manipulative bitch she was when Caspar had still been duped, and it was Piers who had kept him from following blindly while she made a mockery of him.
And it was Piers who had had the good grace not to say “I told you so,” but had smiled with the sort of sympathy only another man could offer, and had promised him that together they would work everything out.
Chapter Twenty-two
Babcock reached Nantwich town center at half past eight the next morning to find the premises of Newcombe and Dutton still locked, blinds closed. He strolled across to the churchyard, taking up a position on a bench that would allow him to keep an unobtrusive eye on the firm’s door. The morning was gray, the remnants of the previous night’s fog still hovering round the rooftops and the massive square of the church tower, and it wasn’t long before the chill of the bench slats worked its way through his overcoat. He’d begun to contemplate the advisability of adding a pound or two of padding to his backside when a shiny new Land Rover (both adjectives oxymorons when combined with Land Rover, in Babcock’s opinion) pulled into the firm’s parking area and Piers Dutton climbed unhurriedly out.
Babcock found it interesting that it was Dutton who’d arrived first to open the office, when Caspar Newcombe lived just a short walk away. But perhaps investment advisors, unlike police officers, relaxed their schedules during Christmas week. The development suited him well enough, however, as he wanted to interview Dutton on his own.
He gave Dutton a few minutes to get settled so as not to give the
impression he’d been waiting to pounce. He wanted the man relaxed, at least in the beginning.
While he waited, he popped knuckles stiffening from the cold and ran over the conversation he’d had with Duncan Kincaid the night before. It was a tricky situation. Not only had Kincaid told him about his sister’s suspicions against her wishes, but Babcock didn’t know Juliet Newcombe well enough to judge her credibility. For all he knew, she might have made the entire business up to satisfy a personal grudge.
When the office blinds snapped open, Babcock took it as his cue and, pri
zing himself off the bench, crossed Churchyardside to the office, at the end of Monk’s Lane. A bell chimed gently as Babcock pushed open the door and stepped into the reception area. Piers Dutton came out of an inner office, looking surprised to see him, but not alarmed.
“You’re the early bird, Chief Inspector,” he said genially. “What can I do for you?”
“Just a quick word, Mr. Dutton, if you don’t mind.”
“No further along, are you, in finding the elusive Smiths?” Dutton asked as he waved Babcock towards the room from which he’d appeared. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Yes, thanks.” Babcock, never a morning person himself, had not expected such cordiality from Dutton. He wasn’t about to refuse what he suspected would be good coffee, however, especially as he was half frozen.
Following Dutton, he looked round the man’s private office with interest. He’d been right about the coffeemaker. A sleek German contraption that looked as if it might run on rocket fuel took center stage on the credenza against the back wall, and the smell emanating from it was enough to make Babcock light-headed.
The rest of the furnishings matched the credenza, never a look that appealed to Babcock personally, but the patina of the wood and the thickness of the carpet beneath his feet shouted money, as he
supposed it was meant to do. The maize-colored wall behind Dutton’s desk held a single painting, an ornately framed study of a bay horse and spaniel in the style of George Stubbs. But the more Babcock studied the jewel- like depth of the colors and the exquisite execution of the brushwork, the more he began to wonder if it actually was a Stubbs, and he whistled soundlessly through his teeth.
“There you are, Chief Inspector.” Dutton handed him a coffee, in a bone-china cup and saucer, no less, and looked at him quizzically.
“Just admiring your painting, sir,” said Babcock, going for the country-bumpkin air. “Reminds me of a picture I saw once in London, at the Tate. By George Stubbs, I think it was.”
Dutton turned to gaze at the painting, but didn’t quite manage to hide the flicker of pleasure that crossed his face. “Very astute of you, Chief Inspector. It is a Stubbs. A family heirloom, actually, but I keep it here where I can enjoy it most.”
Babcock rather doubted that, as Dutton’s back would be to the painting as he sat at his desk, just as he doubted the painting was a family heirloom, but he looked suitably impressed. “Not worried about theft, then, sir?” he asked, eyeing the office window, which looked directly out onto the parking area and, beyond that, the town square.
“Our security’s quite good,” said Dutton. “And I don’t bandy the painting’s provenance about. Very few people are aware of its value.”
He eyed Babcock curiously, and while Babcock felt he might have erred in displaying interest in the painting, he found it telling that Dutton hadn’t been able to resist bragging about his possession.
Dutton poured his own coffee, then seated himself in one of the two visitors’ chairs, motioning Babcock to take the other one. It was a gesture designed to make Babcock feel comfortable, one Babcock imagined Dutton used when he was working a client up to an agreement, and he wondered why the man had changed his tactic after the subtle condescension he’d displayed during their first interview. It
could be that the mention of the painting had made Dutton feel he deserved to be treated as a social equal—a thought that made Babcock want to grind his teeth—or it could be that Dutton was nervous about something. Babcock’s curiosity rose another notch.
“Actually, Mr. Dutton, it’s not the Smiths I’ve come about,” he said. Having sipped the coffee, and found it as good as it smelled, he balanced the delicate cup on his knee. “Do I take it you haven’t heard about yesterday’s murder?”
“Murder?” Dutton gazed at him blankly.
“A woman named Annie Lebow was found murdered beside her narrowboat, quite near your house, in fact.” When Dutton still registered nothing but puzzlement, Babcock added, “I believe you might have known her as Annie Constantine. She was one of your clients.”
“What?” Dutton’s eyes widened, and Babcock could have sworn he saw real shock, quickly camouflaged, in the slackening muscles of the man’s face. “Of course I know Annie Constantine,” Dutton said slowly. “Don’t know why she started calling herself Lebow, when she and her husband aren’t even divorced.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what he’d heard. “Dead, you say?”
“Can you account for your movements night before last, Mr.
Dutton?” asked Babcock, tiring of the man’s baffled-squire act when he felt quite sure there was lightning calculation going on behind the blue eyes.
“My movements? Why on earth would you need to know that?”
Although he sounded incensed, Dutton’s china rattled in his hand.
He leaned forward to set the cup and saucer on the edge of his desk, sloshing coffee as he did so.
“Routine inquiries,” Babcock said, knowing it would irritate Dutton. “But I’m sure you want to cooperate in any way you can.”
“Of course,” Dutton agreed heartily. “But I hadn’t met with Annie Constantine for at least a year, so I don’t quite see—”
“Were you at home the night before last, Mr. Dutton?”
“I— No, actually, I met friends for dinner, at the Swan in Tarporley. We finished about half past ten, and I drove home. The fog was drawing in, so I thought it best to get off the road before the visibility worsened.” Now Dutton was volunteering information, an indication that he was definitely off balance. “Especially as I’d had one or two glasses of wine over the limit,” he added, imparting the confi dence with a slight twinkle, one sophisticated man to another.
Babcock didn’t return the smile. “And when you arrived home, can anyone vouch for your movements? Your son, perhaps?”
Dutton’s careful bonhomie vanished instantly. Blanching, he said furiously, “I won’t have you grilling my son, Chief Inspector. I can’t think why you believe any of this is necessary—”
“The victim has considerable money invested with your fi rm, I believe?”
Reaching for his coffee again, Dutton seemed to make an effort to recover some of his assurance, but Babcock caught the sudden scent of his expensive aftershave, mixed with sweat. “Since when is that a crime,” Dutton said with forced lightness, “or anyone else’s business?”
“When we’ve received information indicating that you might have been defrauding some of your clients, Mr. Dutton. If you were stealing from Ms. Constantine and she found out, that would certainly give you a motive. It appears you had opportunity, and the means were easy enough to hand.”
Dutton gave an unexpected bark of laughter. “So that’s your theory, Chief Inspector? And your source would be Juliet Newcombe, I take it?” He shook his head, a fond uncle expressing disappointment. “I expected better of you. Look, I’ve tried to be discreet about this whole business, for Caspar’s sake, but you must know that the woman is seriously unbalanced. She developed a sort of unhealthy . . . obsession . . . with me.” He looked away, as if embarrassed by the admission. “When I didn’t respond, she began to retaliate. She . . . imagined things. That’s why I encouraged her to
leave the office, to set up on her own. I put clients her way. I tried to protect my partner as best I could, but in the end, I had to tell him what was going on.”
It was slick, it was plausible, it was recounted with just the right degree of reluctance, and Babcock found that he didn’t believe a word. For the first time, he felt certain that Juliet Newcombe had been telling the truth and that Dutton had manufactured her infatu-ation with him as a shield. Had her husband actually believed him?
But if Juliet Newcombe had held such dangerous knowledge, why wasn’t she dead, rather than Annie Constantine? Was it because Dutton hadn’t been sure what Juliet knew? Or because he guessed her loyalty to her husband would keep her quiet?
If that was the case, could Annie Constantine hav
e found out something from Juliet that aroused her own suspicions? Was there a link between the two women that Juliet hadn’t revealed? And did any of this connect in some way with the infant buried in the barn, so near Piers Dutton’s property?
Dutton was watching him, as if assessing his reaction, so Babcock said sympathetically, “How very difficult for you. But I’m sure you can understand that we will have to audit the records of your transactions on Ms. Constantine’s behalf.”
“I understand nothing of the kind.” Dutton’s smile, which had never reached his eyes, disappeared entirely, and his tone could have frozen a hot geyser. “You have no right to my clients’ confidential fi les, Chief Inspector, and if you persist, I’ll have to bring in my attorney.”
Babcock finished his coffee with deliberation, enjoying the last drop, then reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded paper.
“Then you can show him this. It’s a warrant authorizing our fraud team to search your records. They should be here”—he glanced at his watch—“any moment now. If you don’t mind, I’ll just make myself at home until they arrive. And while we’re waiting,” he added, pulling a notebook from his pocket as well, “you could start by giving me the names of the friends you dined with in Tarporley.”
Althea found Gabriel Wain waiting for her in the lay-by across the canal from his boat. He stood like a brooding hawk, hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched, glancing from the boat to the lane and back again. Although he waited while she found a spot for her car at the bottom of the lay-by, he shifted his stance uneasily, his impatience seeming barely contained. Her heart constricted as she reached him. Had Rowan taken a turn for the worse?
But before she could ask, he spoke, the words spilling out as if he could no longer contain them. “The police have been. I said what you told me, that the Constantine woman had reversed into the Daphne and scraped her bow. It seemed all right.”
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