Water Like a Stone (20 page)

Lally felt the familiar cramping in her stomach intensify, and the turkey sandwich she’d nibbled at tea rose into her throat. She swallowed hard against the nausea and bit her lip. How could her mother be anything but terrified when her dad was so furious? Why had her mum walked out in the middle of Christmas dinner, knowing how he would react?

When Lally and Sam had arrived at the farmhouse and found her waiting, she’d rattled off a story about having gone back for something at home and then having car trouble. Lally, an experienced liar herself, hadn’t believed it for a moment.

If that was true, why hadn’t she said she was leaving or rung them? And why were they here now instead of at home? Home, where her dad would be waiting—no, that didn’t bear thinking about, either. But she’d told Leo she’d be home, and it didn’t do to disappoint Leo.

Of course, she was nearer Leo here than she would be back in Nantwich, but that meant sod-all when she was stuck under the watchful gaze of both her mother and her grandmother. Her chances of sneaking out were pretty much nil—at least on her own.

She cast a speculative look at Kit, still at the far end of the table with Granddad. Sam, who had joined them, was hopping from one foot to the other, jabbing his finger at an empty space he thought might fit the puzzle piece Kit held in his hand. Kit, however, ignored him, and with great deliberation slotted the piece into another spot. He looked up, met her eyes, then flushed and glanced away.

Rejection jabbed Lally like a fist. Her tentative smile died half formed and her eyes stung with sudden, humiliating tears. Jumping from her stool, she slipped out into the quiet solace of the hall.
Sound was sliced off in midmurmur as the door latch clicked behind her, and the air felt cold and heavy, a tangible weight against her burning cheeks.

She stood, shivering with the shock of the temperature change, pressing the back of her hand against her nose to stop any more telltale blubbing. What had changed since last night? Kit had liked her, she’d been sure of it, and she’d felt giddy with the unaccustomed sense of power. She hadn’t been able to resist showing off to Leo, even though she’d known it was unwise. Animosity had crackled like static between the two boys from the instant they’d met.

But Kit had seemed all right in church afterwards…maybe it was just her dreadful family, and the things that had happened today, that had made him want nothing to do with her. Or maybe his dad had had a word with him. When her uncle Duncan looked at her, she felt as if he could see right through her, and unlike Gemma, there was no understanding in his eyes.

Defiance flared in her. Leaving the hall, she let herself quietly into the empty sitting room. Only embers glowed in the hearth, and the tree looked naked, stripped of all its presents. It was pathetic, Christmas, a stupid sham, when no one really cared anything about anyone else.

She turned away from the gifts, picking her way across the minefield of toys Toby and Sam had left littered on the carpet until she reached the drinks cabinet. Good, it looked undisturbed. It seemed her grandmother hadn’t offered round the after-dinner sherry bottle. She checked the liquid level, then tossed back a swallow or two while she thought what to do. A comforting warmth began to burn in her middle. Dutch courage, she thought it was called, although she didn’t know where the Dutch came into it. After another sip, she corked the bottle and lowered it carefully back into its spot.

“Presto,” she whispered. The bottle had vanished and returned, just like her mum. If her mother could simply walk out, without any explanation, why shouldn’t she do the same?

“What are you doing?” Kit’s voice was sharper than he’d intended. Lally had been behaving oddly ever since she’d arrived at the farmhouse with Nana and Granddad, and when he’d seen her leave the room, his uneasiness intensified. Managing to slip out of the kitchen when his granddad was occupied with Sam, he’d found Lally by the front door, half into her pink fleece jacket. At the sound of his footsteps she’d frozen like a startled hare, but when she saw it was him she relaxed and shrugged into the other sleeve.

“Going out,” she answered coolly. “I should think that’s obvious.”

“Now?” Kit’s voice squeaked alarmingly and he cleared his throat before trying again. “Where?”

“Why is it any of your business?”

Unprepared for her belligerence, Kit stuttered, “Because you didn’t tell anyone. And it’s…dark.” His face flamed. God, he sounded a complete prat.

“Dark?” Lally echoed, her voice dripping scorn. “You’re telling me I can’t go out in the dark, like I’m a little kid? Who do you think you are, coming into
my
grandparents’ house, bossing me around, turning your nose up at me?”

“What?” Kit stared at her, completely lost. “But I never—I didn’t—”

“You did, just now, in the kitchen. You looked at me like I was something you’d wipe off your shoe.” Her voice rose shrilly.

“Lally, what are you talking about?” Kit moved closer, afraid someone would hear them, and caught a faint whiff of her perfume. He shoved his hands into his pockets, resisting the urge to touch her. “Look, I know you’re upset about your parents, but I never—”

“What about my parents?” She’d gone quiet again, but her chest rose and fell with the quick rhythm of her breathing and he knew he’d said the wrong thing.

“Nothing. It’s just that—I heard them talking just now, your
mum and Rose—Nana. They said you were going to stay here tonight, and I thought—”

“Here?” Lally stared at him, uncomprehending. “Sam and me?”

“And your mum.” He didn’t want to add that Rosemary seemed worried that Lally’s dad might do something bad to her mother.

Lally didn’t seem to take in the import of what he’d told her. “But I don’t want to stay here,” she said, stubbornly. “I want to go home. And I promised—”

“Promised what?” Kit pressed when she didn’t go on.

She shook her head, lifting her hand to the door latch as if coming to a decision. “I’m going out. I’m going to walk to Leo’s, if you really want to know. You can come if you want.”

“My dad would kill me,” Kit said. He might as well have tattooed “wanker” on his forehead.

“So? My dad gets mad at me all the time.” She threw this out as if it were a badge of honor.

His mind flashed back to the afternoon, walking with his dad, talking to the woman with the boat—Annie—and he knew he could never explain that he didn’t want to lose what he’d felt.

Sounds drifted down from upstairs: the deeper rumble of his father’s voice, Gemma’s lighter tone, a laugh. Toby’s bath must be finished. They would be coming down again, Toby allowed to stay up a bit longer in his pajamas.

Lally had heard them, too. “Come on, hurry,” she hissed at him.

“Wait.” Kit reached for her then, his hand finding the thick fleece of her coat sleeve. He couldn’t go with her, yet if he didn’t, he’d lose all credibility in her eyes. “Don’t go tonight,” he said, struggling to find a delaying tactic. “Wait till tomorrow. Then I’ll go with you.”

Lally hesitated, then the energy seemed to drain from her. She looked suddenly younger than her fourteen years, and frightened. Her eyes met his in a plea. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Kit said, and wondered just what sort of trouble he’d bound himself to.

“I’ve left a ready meal by the microwave,” Althea Elsworthy told her sister, Bea. It was just shy of eight o’clock, and she’d said the same thing, at the same time, every morning for as long as she could remember. It was a necessary part of their ritual, however, and any deviation would cause Bea to grow agitated and have to be calmed down before Althea could leave for the hospital.

“My lunch,” said Bea. “Is it mac cheese?” she added querulously, her broad brow furrowed.

“Yes, and I’ve left an apple for you,” Althea answered with a smile. It was always mac cheese, but Bea never failed to ask. In the evenings, Althea tried to vary her sister’s diet, but it took coaxing, and she’d long ago decided that the repetitive lunch was a small compromise to make for her sister’s continued independence during the day.

Beatrice Elsworthy had been brain damaged since the age of eight, when she suffered a head injury in the car crash that had killed their father. He had been drinking and, against their mother’s wishes, had insisted on taking the two girls out for a Sunday afternoon ice cream. At the roundabout nearest their house, he had failed to yield right-ofway to an oncoming lorry. It had been Althea’s turn to ride in the
backseat; she had escaped with a broken arm and a chipped tooth.

Her father’s death had not been punishment enough to assuage her mother’s anger. She’d spent the rest of Althea’s childhood nursing her bitterness as well as her injured younger daughter, until she succumbed to cancer the year Althea graduated from medical school. Althea had cared for Bea ever since.

Now she settled Bea in her favorite armchair, overlooking the cottage’s back garden. Already she had filled the bird feeders and put out nuts for the squirrels on the old tree stump that served as a feeding table. Bea would spend the morning watching the birds and listening to the radio. At noon she would heat her ready meal, and at one she would turn on the telly, already set to BBC1.

The intricacies of the human brain never failed to amaze Althea—why was it that her sister, who was incapable of organizing her own lunch, could name every character on
The Archers,
or describe in great detail who had appeared on the afternoon chat shows on the telly?

Around four, their neighbor, Paul Doyle, would come across for a cup of tea with Bea, and sometimes they would play simple card games for pennies. Nothing made Bea happier than accumulating a pile of gleaming copper coins, and Althea suspected Paul got them new from the bank, although he’d never admitted doing so.

More and more often lately, she found herself rushing to get home before Paul left, to enjoy a drink and a half hour’s visit in front of the fire. She and Bea had known Paul and his late wife for years, but it was only since he’d retired from his teaching position at a local school the previous year that he’d begun visiting on a regular basis.

Althea told herself it was only natural to enjoy a little companionship. She had never shared her personal circumstances with any of her work colleagues, nor had she any intention of doing so. Pity was the one thing she couldn’t bear. Nor was it justified—she needed Bea just as much as Bea needed her—but her reticence made friendship difficult.

Calling the dog, who got up from his rug by the Rayburn and stretched with a popping of joints, she’d just switched on Radio 4 when the doorbell rang. The dog gave one deep woof and trotted towards the door, his claws clicking on the tiled floor.

Althea frowned. The isolated cottage didn’t invite casual visitors, and Paul seldom called round in the mornings. Giving her sister a pat on the shoulder, she said, “I’ll be right back, love.”

“You won’t leave without telling me?”

“No. I promise.” Althea followed the dog into the front hall, pushing aside his head so that she could crack open the door, then stared in surprise at the woman standing on her doorstep. It took her a moment to place the face, older and thinner than when she had last seen it, but the name clicked just as the woman said, “Dr. Elsworthy? Do you remember me? It’s Annie Le—” She paused, then seemed to correct herself. “Annie Constantine. I’m sorry to bother you at home.”

Not sorry enough to refrain from doing it,
Althea thought, but her curiosity was aroused. She’d dealt with Constantine professionally on several occasions when Social Services had been involved in investigating a death, but hadn’t seen her in some years.

She felt the dog’s warm breath on her hip and noted the woman’s anxious glance in his direction. “Don’t mind Dan, he’s quite harmless,” she said, swinging the door wide enough to allow the dog access to the garden.

“Dan?” asked Annie Constantine, drawing her arms close to her body as the dog pushed past her in pursuit of a squirrel.

Althea smiled to herself. The dog was half Irish wolfhound and half mastiff, and everyone assumed he was called something like Boris or Fang. She had named him Danny Boy, and sang his song to him when they were alone in the car, but she had no intention of sharing her little private joke. Nor was she going to ask the woman in. A stranger’s visit would agitate Bea for days.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Constantine?” she asked, stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her.

“It’s Lebow now,” she said, explaining her earlier hesitation. “I’ve gone back to my maiden name.”

Not sure whether this called for condolences or congratulations, Althea merely nodded. “Do go on.” The previous day’s crisp blue skies had given way to tattered gray clouds that mirrored the slush remaining underfoot, and the chill was beginning to seep through her heavy sweater.

“I’ve come to ask a favor,” said Lebow, huddling a bit closer into her fleece jacket, as if preparing for a long stay. Then she told Althea what she wanted.

“I don’t see why I have to do this.” Juliet Newcombe sounded as truculent as a ten-year-old whisked off to visit an ailing and disliked relative.

Kincaid took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at his sister, who sat beside him in the passenger seat of Gemma’s Escort. The day was shaping up to be gray and unremittingly frigid, and even halfway to Crewe the car’s heater hadn’t managed to dent the chill. Juliet held her coat closed at the throat, as if warding off something more solid than the cold air issuing from the heater vents, and even with her face averted, he could see the dark shadows under her eyes.

His excuse in taking her had been that he wanted to talk to his sister—true—but he suspected Gemma knew him well enough to guess that he also wanted to see what progress the local police had made in identifying the mummified child.

With another glance at Juliet’s intractable expression, he said reasonably, “It’s routine, I’ve told you. And as you can’t start work again until the police release the crime scene, I should think you’d want to be as cooperative as possible.” Then, reminding himself that his objective was to communicate with her, he added, “Look. I know things are a bit rough for you at the moment with Caspar. If there’s anything I can—”

She shook her head so violently that strands of her dark hair flew loose from her clip. When she spoke, the words seemed to explode without volition. “There’s nothing anyone can do. He’s a total shit, and I’m a complete idiot for not having seen it years ago.” She stopped, clamping her lips together as if to stop the flow, and shrugged. “But thanks.”

“I take it you’re not going to go home and kiss and make up, then,” Kincaid said, then asked, “Jules, are you afraid of him?”

Her shoulders jerked, an involuntary spasm. “No. Yes. I don’t know. He’s never, you know, hit me or anything. But…he’s changed lately. Those things he said on Christmas Eve…” He saw the color creep up her cheeks at the memory. “And then yesterday, things just seemed to get blown all out of proportion. I don’t see how I can go home and pretend nothing’s happened.”

“Has he tried to ring you?”

“I don’t know. Not at Mum and Dad’s, anyway, and I turned my mobile off. I took Lally’s away as well—I didn’t want him ringing her. She’s furious with me. You’d think I’d amputated an arm.”

Kincaid wasn’t to be distracted. “You don’t think Caspar’s worried about you?”

This time Juliet looked at him, just long enough to roll her eyes. “He must know where I am, otherwise Mum and Dad would have called out the cavalry. And besides, where else would I go? It’s not like I lead the jet-setter’s lifestyle and can run off and borrow a friend’s villa in Cap-Ferrat for a few days while I have a think.”

Sarcasm had always been his sister’s weapon; that, at least, hadn’t changed. “Well, you’ll have to talk to him at some point. If you like, I can go round with you. To the house, or the office.”

“No!” Juliet’s voice soared in panic. “I can’t speak to him. Not yet. Not until I’ve worked out what to do. The children—The house—How can I possibly—”

“Jules,” he interrupted gently, “you can’t imagine the current state of affairs is good for the children.”

“No, but…I just can’t see any options.” The car had warmed and she had stopped clutching her coat, but now her fingers picked restlessly at a loose button.

“You ask Caspar to move out. Then you get a lawyer and file for divorce.”

Juliet sucked in a breath, as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“That
is
what all this means, Jules. Unless you think counseling or some sort of intervention—”

“Oh, God, no.” She gave a bitter whoop and wiped at her eyes. “Caspar in counseling? He’d die first.”

“Then—”

“You think everything’s so bloody simple, don’t you?” Turning to him for the first time, she said, “So tell me how I’m going to support my kids.”

“Your business—”

“I just barely manage to pay my crew and keep my head above water. Maybe when this job is finished, there’ll be a bit left over, but we were already behind schedule, and now—”

“It’s called maintenance, Jules.” Kincaid’s patience was failing. “Caspar will have to contribute to his children’s upkeep. That’s only to be expect—”

“You don’t understand. You don’t know him. He’ll find some way to get out of it. Just because you do the right thing, you assume other fathers will do the same.” Then she suddenly slumped in her seat and touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That’s not fair. And I’ve never said, about Kit, that I was glad for you, or that I was proud of what you’ve done for him. I was so busy resenting you for being perfect that I never realized how much I took for granted.”

Kincaid gave his sister a startled glance. What had he ever done that she should think him perfect? Was that why she always seemed angry with him?

“I was so naive that I thought all men were like you and Daddy,”
she went on. “Sometimes I think growing up in a so-called normal family wasn’t adequate preparation for life. But you—your experiences can’t have been that different from mine. How do you do what you do? Take things like mummified babies in your stride?”

“It’s not like that,” he responded, stung. “It’s not a matter of taking things in stride. It’s just that you learn to…separate…what you see. It’s a problem to be solved, and I like knowing that there’s something I can do.” He wouldn’t tell her how often the lines bled, how often the horror crept in on everyday life, especially since he had found Gemma and the boys.

“Power, then. Is that what it is? You like thinking you’re an instrument of justice?” She was challenging him again, her earlier moment of contrition seemingly forgotten.

“No.” In his early days on the job, he might have been forced to admit that there was some truth in her accusation. Now, however, there were too many days when the beastliness and sheer pettiness he encountered threatened to overwhelm him, when he had to force himself to look for the embers of humanity that sparked among the dregs.

Juliet must have heard the weariness in his voice, because after a quick glance she averted her face again. As he negotiated a roundabout, he sifted through the things his sister had told him, wondering how he could begin to respond. And then, with a spike in his pulse, he realized what she’d avoided so adroitly by turning the conversation to their own family.

“Jules,” he said sharply, “those things Caspar said the other night—is there any truth to them? Is that why you won’t stand up to him?”

It was not that Ronnie Babcock was unaccustomed to frustration. A good part of policing involved frustration—cases were seldom solved in the day or two allowed in the crime dramas on the telly—but at least there were usually some small avenues of progress.

There would be family, acquaintances, neighbors to interview.
Scene-of-crime would have turned up one or two things of possible interest, or the forensic pathologist could tell them the assailant had been right-handed, or the victim had been double the legal limit when he’d been knocked down by a car.

But so far this case had produced nothing but a series of roadblocks. Dr. Elsworthy had sent the child’s remains off to the Home Office forensic anthropologist, but Babcock knew it would be another day or two before he could expect a report.

Although scene-of-crime had extended their search from the building to the surrounding lane and pasture, they had turned up nothing more of interest—not that the bits they’d found in the barn itself qualified as interesting, although they had found a stash of vodka bottles beneath some stacked boards in a corner.

Nor had the neighbors who might have an address for the elusive Smiths, the barn’s previous owners, returned from their holiday. The manufacturer of the baby’s blanket was still closed, and Babcock’s old mate Jim Craddock, who had handled the Smiths’ sale of the property to the Fosters, was on holiday in Tenerife.

Rasansky’s canvass of the local shops that might have sold the child’s blanket had proved fruitless as well. In what he knew was an unfair fit of pique, Babcock had sent Rasansky back to reinterview the Fosters, although he suspected Rasansky would probably not find it a punishment—he and the Fosters would probably get on like a house afire.

“Penny for them, boss,” said Sheila Larkin, perching on the corner of the desk he’d commandeered in the incident room. She’d made a concession to the cold today, he saw, and wore tights and boots under her scrap of a skirt. “You look like you got out of the wrong side of the bed,” she added, eyeing him critically.