Water Like a Stone (40 page)

Once he heard Gemma stumble and curse, but when he reached back to steady her, she whispered, “No, I’m fine. Hurry.” The path twisted and turned, but Kincaid’s sense of direction told him they were heading towards the canal at a slightly oblique angle.

The path curved once more, and Lally came to a dead stop. When they cannoned into her, she steadied herself, then raised a hand to motion them to silence. Ahead, Kincaid could see a small brick building, but it was dark and there was no sign of movement.

Lally let out an audible breath and moved forward, skirting the shed on the left as she headed towards the canal. “They’re not here. What if we’re too—”

Kincaid and Gemma had stepped up to flank her, so that when she froze, they saw the tableau before them in the same instant.

Kit stood to one side of a slight clearing ahead of them. Ten feet away, on the clearing’s far side, Leo Dutton held a raised shotgun.

“You’d better stop where you are,” Leo said, so casually that Kincaid knew he had heard them before they saw him. “That’s what I call in the nick of time. And, Lally, you brought the cavalry, clever girl.”

“Leo, I—Don’t hurt Kit. He hasn’t done any—”

“Shut up.” With the barrel of the gun, Leo motioned to Kit to move closer to the others. Then he rotated slightly, so that he could cover them all evenly. “So now you’re a snitch, Lally, as well as a thief and a liar. But this time you can’t take it back. You can’t make it up to me.”

“I can. I’ll do whatever you want—”

“What? You think it’s that easy? That I’ll just let you lot walk away?” Leo’s voice rose, and the barrel of the shotgun came up with it.

“You won’t gain anything by hurting us, Leo,” said Kincaid, as levelly as he could manage. If he could keep the boy talking, he might be able to contain him until backup arrived. “The police already know you drowned Peter Llewellyn and you killed Annie Lebow. She recognized you on Boxing Day, didn’t she, when you and Lally and Kit stopped at the boat? She’d seen you the night Peter died.

“You were wet because you’d had to hold Peter under, weren’t you? It was harder than you’d thought to drown someone. Annie said you were ‘wild-eyed’; maybe you hadn’t known what it would feel like to kill another human being. She thought, when she heard about the drowning later, that it was Peter she had seen, and that she might have helped him.”

“She stepped right into my path, the stupid cow. She saw my face. That day on the towpath, while Kit here was making chitchat, I could see her looking at me, trying to make the connection.”

“You killed her?” Kit’s voice was high with shock, and Kincaid realized his mistake. Kit had guessed about Peter, but he hadn’t known enough to put the pieces together about Annie. “You killed Annie!” Kit was shouting now, blazing with rage. “She was a good person. She never did anything to hurt anyone. She didn’t deserve to die. And you—I saw her. I saw what you did to her.” Kit charged towards the other boy, in his fury oblivious to the danger.

“No!” shouted Lally, and launched herself at Kit.

In that instant, a twig cracked. Kincaid just glimpsed Ronnie Babcock stepping into the clearing as Leo whirled towards the noise and the gun discharged.

The boom reverberated, deafening in the still night air, but beneath it Kincaid heard Ronnie’s grunt of surprise. Gemma ran towards him even as he fell.

“Don’t move. Nobody move,” commanded Kincaid. Lally had pushed Kit down and they both froze in a crouch. Leo still held the gun, but he was visibly shaking. “Easy, Leo, easy,” Kincaid said, then to Gemma, “How bad is it?”

She’d knelt, slipping off her coat and pressing it to Ronnie’s midriff. Her face looked white in the gloom as she glanced up at him. “We need help. Quickly.”

Kincaid prayed that the gun had been filled with birdshot, that it had not been tightly choked, that the boy’s aim had been off. Ronnie groaned and Gemma murmured something he couldn’t hear.

Slowly, carefully, Kincaid turned back to Leo Dutton. The gun was double-barreled. Had the boy loaded both chambers? “Leo. Put the gun down. If you do it now, that was an accident. We all saw that. But if you let a policeman die, it’s murder.”

“You said the police already knew about Peter and that woman,” Leo countered. “So what do I have to lose?” But some of the bravado was gone; he sounded, for the first time, like a frightened teenager.

“Oh, they know, but that’s not the same as proof, is it? Not even Lally can prove you killed Peter Llewellyn. It’s only conjecture on her part. And there’s no forensic evidence linking you to the murder of Annie Lebow, and no witnesses. Anything you’ve said tonight will be inadmissible in court.

“But even if the police could connect you to these crimes, you’re a juvenile. You might get a few months in a psychiatric ward, then probation. Your father can pull strings.” Kincaid could only hope that Leo didn’t know his father was facing indictment for fraud, and
that the influence Piers Dutton had wielded among the rich and powerful in the county might soon be a memory.

He glanced over at Babcock, who lay alarmingly still. Gemma shook her head at him, a signal of distress.

Kincaid dropped his voice, mustering every ounce of persuasion he possessed. “But if you let the chief inspector here die, not even your father can protect you. It won’t matter what you do to the rest of us. And there isn’t anywhere you can run that they won’t find you.”

A flash of light came from the woods, then another, followed by the faint echo of voices. Leo glanced towards the sound, the whites of his eyes showing, then back at Kincaid. He shifted the gun until it pointed not at Kincaid, but at Kit. “I could shoot him. You know I could. And you couldn’t stop me.”

Despair washed over Kincaid, followed immediately by an incandescent anger. He would not let this monster take his son. He tensed his body, ready to throw himself at the boy, but said, “You won’t.”

The moment stretched until Kincaid thought his heart would stop. Then Leo let the gun barrel drop until the end touched the ground. He laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I will. But I had you.” Turning to Kit, he said, “And you. I had you. A few seconds, a little pressure on the trigger. That’s all it would have taken, and you knew it. I won. Don’t forget it.”

It was after midnight by the time Kincaid managed to get to Leighton Hospital.

Although Kevin Rasansky had secured the crime scene competently enough after the ambulance crew had taken Babcock away, it had been Babcock’s superintendent who had met them at Crewe Police Station to take statements from Kincaid, Gemma, Lally, and Kit, and to oversee the booking in of Leo Dutton. Special arrangements would have to be made for the boy’s custody, as he was a juvenile, but for now he was safely ensconced in an interview room with a constable on the door.

Piers Dutton had been contacted and had arrived, at first too shocked to bluster, but the last Kincaid had seen of him, he’d been on his mobile, calling solicitors and his father, the judge.

Having obtained dry clothes for Kit from one of the officers, Kincaid had rung his sister and was surprised to find that she, too, was at the police station, assisting her husband in making a statement concerning a fire at Newcombe and Dutton. Once Lally had given her statement, he had taken her to meet her mother in the lobby, and Juliet had hugged her daughter as if she would never let her go. When
Lally had at last pulled away and asked, “What about Daddy?” Juliet had simply told her he would be staying for a bit, helping the police.

“I can take Lally and Kit home,” Juliet had offered. “And Gemma, too, if you’re not ready, Duncan.” She paused. “Your friend the chief inspector—”

“I’ll stay,” Gemma had said. “I can drive you to hospital.”

“No, go on, the boys need you,” he’d told her, but the truth was that if the news was bad, he wanted to be on his own when he heard it. He’d tried ringing the hospital several times, but they’d refused to tell him anything about Babcock’s condition. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” He’d brushed his lips against her cheek and given Kit a quick hug.

Now, as he entered the waiting room outside intensive care, his stomach clamped with dread. By the time the medics had arrived, Ronnie had lost consciousness, and Gemma’s hands and arms had been covered with his blood.

The small room was filled with men and women with tense white faces, sitting and standing, clutching polystyrene coffee cups like talismans. He recognized many of them, officers both plainclothed and uniformed, whom he had seen in the incident room and at Crewe station.

“Is there any news?” he asked, and one of the women shook her head.

“No. He’s out of surgery, but they won’t tell us anything. Sheila’s gone to bully the doctor.” She managed a faint smile.

It was only then that Kincaid realized he hadn’t seen Larkin at the crime scene or the station—she must have gone directly to hospital.

He found a vacant spot of wall and leaned against it, settling in to wait with the others. The woman who had spoken offered him coffee from an urn on the table and he accepted, knowing it would be swill, but, like the others, needing something to hold in his hands.

It was another half hour before the doors swung open and Sheila Larkin came through. Her skin was pasty with exhaustion, her eyes
ringed with smudged mascara. His heart plummeted, and he heard little gasps of dismay travel round the room like a wave.

But then she was shaking her head and wiping her eyes, half laughing and saying hurriedly, “No, no. He’s all right. The doctor says he looks like a sieve, but that he was too bloody-minded to die on the operating table. He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay.”

New Year’s Day dawned clear and unseasonably mild. After breakfast, Kincaid started to Leighton for one last visit with Ronnie Babcock. He’d been every day, but had found his friend sedated and sprouting enough tubes to qualify as the Bionic Man. The nurses had insisted he was improving, however, and promised that today would see some of the tubes out and the pain medication reduced. “He may be a bit bad-tempered, though,” the head sister had added with a grin.

Bad-tempered would be welcome, in Kincaid’s view, as long as his friend was conversant. He and Gemma and the boys would be heading back to London that afternoon, and Gemma having agreed that they should tell Babcock the Wains’ story, he would much prefer to do it in person.

He found a space in the hospital’s still-slushy car park. Passing through the area reserved for hospital personnel, he glanced at a Morris Minor and started as deep brown eyes in an large shaggy head stared back at him. Remembering Gemma’s description of Dr. Elsworthy’s dog, he laughed, and as the windows were half down, said, “Hello, boy. Are you waiting for your mistress?”

The beast’s ears went back, and the car rocked as the giant tail thumped. Kincaid took that as a good sign, but wasn’t quite brave enough to put his hand through the window to pet the dog. The pathologist needn’t worry about car burglars—not that it looked as though there was anything in it worth stealing.

Once inside, he found his friend indeed looking more chipper, sitting up in bed and, although still hooked to a drip, missing the gastric tube that had been snaked from his nose.

“Jelly,” said Babcock disgustedly when Kincaid commented on his improved status. “That’s what they call real food. Lemon-flavored jelly and a can of some revolting boost drink.”

Kincaid grinned. “I’m sure you’ll be up to steak and whisky tomorrow.”

Babcock rolled his eyes but said, “Well, eventually, or so they say, thank God. It seems they were able to repair all the major bits.” Sighing, he added, “I just want to go home. This place smells like a funeral parlor.” He gestured at the bouquets covering every available surface. “All my officers, sucking up. My ex-wife even sent a meager offering, although she didn’t come to wish me well in person. Probably a good thing—the sight of her might have set me back days.”

He paused, resting for a moment as Kincaid pulled up a chair, then said, “Your sister sent a card, by the way. Very kind of her, considering the fact that we’ve charged her husband with arson. How is she doing, after all this?” Although shadowed, his blue eyes showed the concern that had made Kincaid like Ronnie Babcock from the day he’d met him.

“She seems to be coping. The dairy renovation’s going again, and with a streak of mild weather she might even get it back on schedule. And she’s started divorce proceedings. I don’t know how things will work out.”

“Your brother-in-law is an idiot,” Babcock said testily. “She deserves better.”

“Yes.” Kincaid’s agreement was heartfelt. She’d deserved better from him, too, and he meant to remedy that.

“I heard you, that night.” Babcock’s words snapped his attention back to his friend.

“What?”

“Telling Leo Dutton he’d get away with murder if he turned himself in. Mind you, I’m not criticizing. I’d have done the same, and it probably saved my life. But that’s not going to happen, not if I have breath left in my body. I don’t care if he is only fourteen. He’s vicious.”

“A bad seed?”

“Born or made, I don’t care. But I will find evidence to link him to those crimes, no matter how long it takes. The high-flying solicitor Piers Dutton wanted for his son turned down the case,” he added with a smile of satisfaction. “Seems he wasn’t confident of papa’s ability to pay, considering his present difficulties.”

“Not surprising, but good news.”

“It would make me even happier if I could link Dutton Senior to the baby.”

“Ronnie.” Kincaid adjusted his chair. “You won’t.”

“What are you, clairvoyant?” Babcock asked, but the acerbity was a bit forced, his voice going thready. He was tiring.

“No,” Kincaid told him. “Just listen.”

While he talked, Babcock’s eyes drifted closed, and when he’d finished, his friend lay still for so long that Kincaid thought he had fallen asleep.

Then Babcock opened his eyes and fixed Kincaid with a blue glare. “Let sleeping dogs lie, then? Is that what you’re suggesting?” Before Kincaid could protest, Babcock silenced him with a wave. “I daresay you’re right. Annie Constantine believed in the Wains, and although she may have been compensating for past mistakes, she was a good judge of character. It sounds as if that family has suffered enough.

“But before you go thinking I’ve gone soft, I’ve more reasons than the kindness of my heart for not pursuing it.” He ticked them off on his fingers, making the drip dance. “Even if I could get CPS to take on the case, I doubt any jury would convict. It would serve only to get Social Services involved and lose the man what family he has left.

“And most important, I’ve enough on my plate trying to get Piers and Leo Dutton banged up for a good long time. I don’t need to waste time and resources on something with no return.”

Kincaid grinned. “Said like a good bureaucrat. But you are a softie.”

“There’s a caveat,” Babcock countered. “I need to tell my aunt Margaret. She said when I told her about the case that someone had grieved for that child, and it seems she was right.” He thought for a moment, the creases in his face deepening. “And there’s one other person should know the truth.”

Before Kincaid could question him, there was a light tap at the door and Sheila Larkin came in. She wore a short skirt, a fuzzy pink jumper, and patterned tights, and the sight of her round, snub-nosed face seemed to bring the color back to Babcock’s cheeks. “Oh, am I interrupting?” she asked, looking prepared to back out again.

“Not a bit.” Kincaid stood, offering his chair. “I’ve got to dash. We’re off home to London this afternoon, after my mother’s traditional New Year’s lunch.”

Larkin took the chair, producing a bunch of carnations she’d held behind her back.

“Don’t tell me you’ve brought flowers,” Babcock groaned. “You know I hate flowers.”

“Couldn’t get the single malt past the matron.” Larkin winked at Kincaid, suppressing a smile. “Besides, I thought the more miserable I made you, the sooner you’d get yourself back to work. There are going to be dire consequences if you don’t, boss.”

“What?” said Babcock, taking the bait.

This time Larkin’s grin threatened to split her face. “Rasansky’s
going to get himself promoted to chief superintendent, that’s what. He’s already taken over your desk.”

Juliet was loading the children’s things into the van when she saw Duncan turn into the drive. She stopped, shielding her eyes from the sun, and watched him get out of the car.

“Here,” he said as he reached her. “Let me help.” He lifted the last bag with a surprised “Oof,” and hefted it into the van. “What have you got in here, rocks?”

“Probably a few. It’s Sammy’s. He tends to accumulate things.”

“You’re going home, then?”

She had given Caspar the last few days to get his things out of the house and to make arrangements for somewhere else to stay, but this afternoon she and the children were going back to North Crofts. “Yes. At least for the time being.”

“Chief Inspector Babcock sends his regards.”

“How is he?”

“Recovering.” Duncan said it lightly, but she heard his relief. She studied her brother, realizing that for the first time, free of the lens of resentment, she was seeing him as he really was. He was no superman to be lived up to, but just an ordinary man—although sometimes an annoying one—with troubles of his own. And she loved him.

“I’m glad about your friend Ronnie,” she said. Then, “Duncan, what will happen to Caspar? Will he go to prison?”

“I don’t know. His sentencing might be lenient if he makes a good plea for disturbance of the balance of his mind, especially as, so far, the police have found no evidence linking him to Piers’s fraud scheme.” He looked away, then went on a little awkwardly. “Jules, I’m sorry—”

“No. Don’t say it. You were right. Even though Piers wasn’t guilty of murder, he deserved to be caught out.”

He nodded. “What will you do—about Caspar, I mean? Mum
says he’s been ringing every day, wanting to reconcile. Will you take him back?”

She watched a car travel down the farm lane and disappear round a curve as she thought about it. “No. I might forgive what he did to me, eventually. But the children—he twisted them. He played them against me for his own emotional gratification. I should have stopped it long ago, but I didn’t. It’s going to take a lot of work on my part to remedy the damage.”

She had begun that very morning, taking Lally into the upstairs bathroom and locking the door. She pulled the bags Gemma had given her from her pocket, and when Lally’s startled eyes met hers, she’d emptied both bags carefully into the toilet and pulled the chain.

“No more,” she said. “From now on, I’m going to be watching you like a hawk, and if I even suspect you’re doing anything like this, I’ll lock you up until you’re toothless. Is that understood?”

Lally nodded, wordlessly, but the relief in her eyes had been clear.

Now the front door opened and Lally came out with Geordie scampering at her heels. She’d been grooming him, with instructions from Kit, and the little dog’s silky coat glistened in the sun.

“He’s lovely, isn’t he, Mum?” called out Lally, and when Juliet saw the uncomplicated smile of pleasure on her daughter’s face, she thought that perhaps all things were possible, even new beginnings.

Gemma sat at the kitchen table drinking tea with Rosemary. The past few days had been good, and it surprised her now that she had ever wondered if she would fit in here. Even Juliet seemed to have forgiven her breach of confidence, and had hugged her tightly when she and Sam and Lally had left just after their New Year’s lunch.

Duncan had gone with Kit to take Tess and Geordie for a last walk, and Hugh, who had taken Toby under his wing as if he were his own grandchild, was leading the little boy round and round the
field on one of the Shetland ponies. Even from the kitchen she could hear Jack’s barks and Toby’s shrieks of excitement, and was grateful for the pony’s placid temperament.

“They’re getting on well, aren’t they?” said Rosemary, echoing her thoughts. “Hugh’s missed having little ones, with Lally and Sam getting older.”

“He’s good with the children.”

“Too good, I sometimes think,” answered Rosemary, laughing. “He’s a child at heart. I don’t suppose that’s altogether a bad thing, although there have been times when it has tried my patience sorely. But we’ve rubbed off on each other, over the years.” She set down her cup and studied Gemma as if debating something, then said, “It’s been good to see you and Duncan together. You’re truly partners, in a way that he and Victoria never were. Nor could they have been, I think, even if things had turned out differently.”

Gemma flushed. She had always supposed Duncan’s parents would compare her to Vic, and find her lacking. “I—”

But Rosemary cut her off, shaking her head. “Forgive my being blunt, but it’s a gift, what you and Duncan have. It shouldn’t be taken lightly. It’s a balancing act, I know, juggling the different pieces of your life, but don’t let this pass you by, or let loss harden you against it.”

Gemma went still inside, and when she met the older woman’s gaze she felt as if she had been stripped naked, and was suddenly ashamed.

Then Rosemary smiled. “He’s not perfect, I admit, even though he is my son. But then I should think perfection would be very hard to live with.”

They took the footpath across the field, towards the Middlewich Junction, letting the dogs run free. The ground had begun to dry and the going was easier than it had been in the snow.

Tess stayed close to Kit, her eyes on her master, but Geordie zigzagged in front of them, sniffing the ground excitedly. Then a low-flying bird caught the cocker spaniel’s eye and he froze, his docked tail straight out, one paw raised.

“Look, he’s pointing,” said Kit. “He does that at home when he sees squirrels.”

“Cocker spaniels are flushing dogs, not pointers,” Kincaid commented, “but he doesn’t seem to know the difference.”

He surveyed the rolling Cheshire landscape with a pang, wondering when he would see it again, and why he had waited so long to come back. Glancing at his son, he asked, “Do you like it here?”

“Yes. It reminds me of Grantchester, a bit.” Then Kit added thoughtfully, “But I’m not sure I’d want to be reminded, not all the time. And I miss our house, and Wesley, and the park, and the market on Saturday—”

“Okay, okay,” Kincaid said, smiling. “I get it. I’m glad. I miss it, too. I’ll be glad to get home.”

They walked on in easy silence, then, as they climbed down to the Middlewich towpath, Kit said, “Will Lally be all right?”

Kincaid considered what to say. “I think so. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep in touch, let her know you’re there. She is your cousin, after all.”

When they reached Barbridge he stopped, looking down the Shropshire Union and thinking of the associations that stretch of the canal must have for Kit, and would have now for him, as well. “We should go back.”

But Kit surprised him, saying, “No. I want to go on, just for a bit.”

“All right.” Kincaid shrugged assent, wondering if this was Kit’s way of laying his demons to rest. The dogs ran ahead and Kincaid followed his son’s determined stride as they left pub and moorings behind. The curving reaches of the cut looked enchanted in the early-afternoon sunlight, a place of dreaming stillness, impervious to violence.

Kit’s steps slowed as they rounded a now-familiar curve and saw the
Horizon
still at her mooring. The crime-scene tape was gone, but the blinds were tightly closed, and it seemed to Kincaid that the boat had already taken on a neglected air.

“What will happen to her?” asked Kit.

“I should imagine Roger Constantine will sell the boat, after a time. I can’t imagine that he would want to use it. It’s too much Annie’s.”