Water Like A Stone

Chapter Twelve

The house stood sentinel at the head of the lane that led to the old dairy barn, the outlines of its four turreted chimneys just visible against the faintly luminescent dusk. The Victorians did themselves proper, Babcock thought as he pulled into the drive, although always at the expense of those less fortunate. He could never see a house like this without thinking of the legions of capped and uniformed maids who had scurried from floor to floor, rubbing their work-reddened and swollen hands against their starched white aprons.

Tonight, however, the house held more than insubstantial Victorian ghosts. Lights blazed from the ground-floor windows, so perhaps he would be fortunate enough to find Piers Dutton at home.

If the house was illuminated, the drive was dark as pitch, he discovered as he climbed out of the car. Muttering under his breath, he picked his way to the porch, where only a dim light burned. If Dutton could afford the upkeep on this pile, surely he could spring for a bulb bright enough to light the entrance, he thought sourly.

Stamping the snow from his feet, Babcock rang the bell. A moment later he was rewarded by the sound of footsteps in the hall, and the massive door swung open to reveal a man he assumed to be

Dutton himself. “Can I help you?” the man asked peremptorily, but his tone was more curious than hostile. In designer denim and corduroy, he looked every inch the country gent.

“My name’s Babcock. Chief Inspector Babcock. If I could have a moment of your time, Mr. Dutton?”

For just an instant, Dutton’s face expressed the alarm felt by the most honest of citizens when confronted unexpectedly by the police.

Then he smiled and said, “Ah. This is about all the commotion down the lane, I take it.” His accent was the sort of public-school drawl that raised hackles on the back of Babcock’s neck, his manner welcoming, with an easy condescension that was more offensive than Tom Foster’s outright contempt.

Waving Babcock into the hall, Dutton closed the door against the encroaching cold before continuing. “I was out last night and most of today, so I seem to have missed the excitement. I’ve only just heard about it from a neighbor.”

“Would that have been Mr. Foster?”

Babcock must have given something away in his tone, because Dutton gave a conspiratorial grunt of laughter. “I take it you’ve met?

A half dozen messages on my BT CallMinder, no less. Tom Foster seemed to be certain I could supply the solution to the mystery.”

“And I take it he was disappointed?” Babcock asked lightly.

“Infinitely. Not only did I not know the identity of the mysterious infant, I suggested he should mind his own business and let the police do their jobs.”

“That must have gone over well.”

“Like the proverbial lead balloon. He rang off in a state of high dudgeon, and I can’t truthfully say I’m sorry. Perhaps he won’t call back for a bit.”

While Babcock might privately agree with Piers Dutton’s opinion of his neighbor, he thought Dutton’s remarks not only rude, but designed to foster a false atmosphere of camaraderie between them. It made him wonder if the man had something to hide or if he simply s

manipulated as naturally as he breathed. In any event, it would do no harm to let him think he’d succeeded.

“Considering your spirit of cooperation, I assume you won’t mind answering my questions,” he suggested, smiling amiably. “So that we can do our jobs.”

Dutton glanced round, as if considering whether he could keep him standing in the entry hall, then said, “I suppose you’d better come through here.” He led the way into a sitting room on the left—or what Babcock supposed should more properly be called a “drawing room.”

You certainly couldn’t say “lounge” in this house.

His first impression, after the relative severity of the hall, was of opulence run amok. The colors ran to rich burgundies and deep blues, and everything that wasn’t gilded seemed to be velvet. But then his eye picked out a leather armchair, and he saw rugs in manly Ralph Lauren–esque tartans draped here and there over the furniture. A large Christmas tree stood by the front windows, and the room smelled sharply of fi r.

A half dozen candles gleamed from the heavy mahogany mantel, adding to the flickering warmth of the fire burning in the grate. Babcock thought it was a surprisingly feminine touch—he knew very few men who would bother with candles of their own accord—but there was no other hint of a woman’s presence.

For all Piers Dutton’s apparent disdain for his neighbor, he, like Tom Foster, offered Babcock neither a seat nor a drink. An open bottle of wine stood on a side table, and a half- filled glass on the mantel reflected candlelight from its claret depths, but while Dutton positioned himself with his back to the fire, he didn’t pick up his drink.

A laptop computer sat open on the ottoman in front of the leather chair, but the screen faced away from Babcock’s curious gaze.

When he was a boy, his great-aunt Margaret, annoyed by his cease-less questions on one of her infrequent visits, had called him “elephant’s child.” It wasn’t until many years later that he’d read Kipling and discovered the source. Time had not cured him of this malady,

but at least now he had an excuse for his per sis tent curiosity. He’d begun to edge casually towards the chair, as if examining the room, but Dutton stepped to the ottoman and snapped the laptop shut.

“Very dedicated of you, working on Christmas,” Babcock said, giving the computer only a passing glance as he displayed great interest in a series of hunting prints on the wall behind Dutton’s chair.

“I hope I haven’t interrupted anything terribly important.”

“Just finishing up a client presentation—a little light relief after a day spent with family.” Moving back to the hearth, Dutton regarded him quizzically. “And isn’t that a case of the pot calling the kettle black? ”

“But I’ve no choice in the matter,” protested Babcock.

“Somehow I doubt that, Chief Inspector.” Amusement gleamed in Dutton’s blue eyes. Unlike Tom Foster, he seemed to have no trouble remembering Babcock’s rank. “You must have minions to do this sort of thing.”

Choking back a laugh at the idea of telling Detective Constable Larkin she’d been referred to as a “minion,” Babcock said, “The minions have tried several times to contact you since last night, Mr.

Dutton. I thought I might get lucky.” He slipped off his overcoat and, without invitation, sat on the arm of the sofa and extracted his notebook from his jacket pocket.

“Ah, down to business, then,” Dutton said, with an air of mock resignation. “How exactly can I help you, Chief Inspector?”

Babcock had his own agenda, and it didn’t include letting Piers Dutton take charge of the interview. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

He glanced round the room again, looking as callow and guileless as his battered face would allow. “Although I suspect I’d hate to pay for your central heating. Did Mrs. Dutton do the decorating?”

“I’m divorced, Mr. Babcock. I bought this house after my ex-wife and I separated.”

Babcock whistled. “And here I’m stuck paying the mortgage on my semi—either that or splitting the proceeds with my ex if I sell.

Not a pretty prospect.” He shook his head regretfully, then said, “So you live here all on your own, Mr. Dutton?”

“My son lives with me. My ex-wife and I have joint custody, but Leo prefers staying here most of the time. Boys need their fathers, don’t you agree?”

Thinking of what little he had known of his own father, Babcock forced a smile. “No doubt you’re right. And you’ve been here how long?”

“Five years.” Dutton frowned, calculating. “A bit longer, actually.”

“Then you will have known the Smiths, before they moved away?”

“The people who had the Fosters’ place? I met them, yes, but they sold up not long after I moved in. You can’t honestly think that old couple walled up a child in their dairy?” Dutton asked, sounding more astonished than horrified. “They were salt of the earth, Farmer Brown and Wife.”

“We have to investigate all the possibilities, Mr. Dutton, and it’s important that we get in touch with them. Do you know where they went, or how to contact them?”

Piers Dutton raised his brows in undisguised amusement. “Really, Chief Inspector, I’ve no idea. It wasn’t the sort of association one would keep up. And I should think it highly unlikely that they could help you if you do find them. Surely some local kids were responsible, taking advantage of an abandoned building to dispose of an unwanted infant.”

“The body was mortared in. A bit much forethought for a teenager, no matter how desperate, I’d say.” Babcock found it interesting that Dutton also seemed unaware that the child wasn’t a newborn.

“Have you not spoken to Mrs. Newcombe?”

“Juliet? No. Although Tom Foster did say that it was she who found this body.” He shook his head with a kind of sorrowful maj-esty. “A bad business, all round. I’m sorry I—” He stopped, his gaze moving past Babcock’s shoulder.

At the same moment, Babcock sensed a presence behind him, although he’d heard no sound. He rose, turning towards the doorway, as Dutton said, “Leo. My son, Chief Inspector Babcock.”

Babcock saw a young man—no, a boy, he amended after a moment’s assessment, but tall for his age—watching them from the hallway. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, although his face was carefully schooled in an expression of bored disinterest. He was handsome, the angles of his face plainly visible, as his father’s once must have been before the indulgences of middle age blurred and softened his features. Babcock wondered how long he’d been listening.

“Sir.” Leo acknowledged him with a nod, but didn’t come into the room. He turned his attention to his father. “Dad. I’m going out.”

“Where?” asked Dutton, but the question seemed perfunctory.

“Barbridge. To meet some of my mates.”

“All right, then. Don’t be late.”

“Yeah,” answered Leo, and with another nod at Babcock, disappeared as silently as he’d appeared.

Barbridge was a few minutes’ walk, but there was nothing in the hamlet other than the pub, and even had the pub been open, Leo Dutton was too young to be admitted to the premises unaccompanied by an adult. What did his father imagine the boy and his friends were doing?

“Probably wants to show his friends his new mobile,” Dutton said, apparently unperturbed by the image of roaming underage boys, cadging beers from those old enough to buy alcohol, and smoking illicit cigarettes, or worse, in the bus shelter.

Perhaps he’d been a policeman too long, Babcock thought, and at any rate it was none of his business. Leo Dutton was too young to have been responsible for an abandoned baby, unless he’d been fathering children in primary school. Babcock was more interested in Juliet Newcombe. “Mr. Dutton, about Mrs. Newcombe. You were saying—?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. It’s just that it must have been a dreadful experience for Juliet, finding that child. I feel a bit responsible, having recommended her for the job.”

“Tom Foster seemed to have had some doubt as to Mrs. Newcombe’s being capable of doing the work. I’d have thought you’d want your new neighbors to be satisfied with their contractor.”

Dutton’s heavy face creased in annoyance. “Foster obviously misinterpreted something I said. I’d never have given Juliet’s name to the Bonners if I hadn’t thought her qualified. There’s no questioning her skills . . .”

“But?” asked Babcock, quick to pounce on Dutton’s hesitation.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Dutton shifted his stance and looked away. “It’s nothing, really.”

Babcock didn’t respond, letting the silence settle over the room until the sizzle and pop from the hearth sounded as loud as the roar of a brushfire.

Dutton broke the tension, as Babcock had guessed he would.

Clearing his throat, he said, “It was a difficult time for everyone concerned, Juliet’s leaving. Of course, I wish her success with her venture, for her own sake as well as my partner’s. I’d never say anything to jeopardize that. It’s just—” His pained expression grew more intense and he cleared his throat again, but this time he held Babcock’s gaze, his blue eyes crinkled with earnest sincerity. Then he sighed and went on. “It’s just that, emotionally, Juliet can go off the deep end a bit. I’m afraid she’s not always entirely reliable.”

Lally had pulled a stool into a corner of her grandparents’ kitchen, where she perched, isolated as an island in a sea of conversational crosscurrents. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to be deaf, to watch the movement of mouths and register only mean-ingless visual static. But even the deaf could read expressions, and that, sometimes, was bad enough.

God, she hated the way they looked at each other, her uncle Duncan and his Gemma. He sat at the far end of the kitchen table, with her grandfather and Kit, while Gemma had just turned from the fridge. Across the hubbub of the room, he inclined an eyebrow, and she gave the slightest of nods, one corner of her mouth lifting in an infinitesimal smile. The communication was more intimate than any touch, and made Lally as ashamed to have witnessed it as if she’d seen them naked. Somehow the fact that she liked Gemma, had felt a connection with her, made it worse.

She couldn’t imagine that her parents had ever looked at each other that way, and that realization made her gut clench with a sick feeling she couldn’t quite name.

Duncan had been helping her granddad and Kit finish Toby’s Harry Potter puzzle while Toby played on the floor with Sam, zooming Star Wars figures around with annoying little- boy sound effects.

Now, apparently having received confi rmation from Gemma, Duncan stood and scooped Toby up under his arm, announcing, “Bath time, mate.” When Toby protested, Duncan tickled his ribs and made growling noises until the little boy squealed with laughter and let himself be carried away, still giggling.

Had her father ever played with her or Sam like that? Thinking about it, Lally couldn’t actually remember her father playing with them at all. The attention he’d been paying them lately was a new thing, something that had only started since he’d been so angry with her mum. And although she knew that, when he was nice to her she wanted it to go on, and that made her feel sick in quite a different sort of way.

Gemma followed Duncan and Toby from the room, giving Lally a smile and a feather touch on her shoulder as she passed, but Lally found she couldn’t meet her eyes. That left her mum and Nana huddled by the cooker, talking in the sort of low voices that meant they didn’t want the children to hear. Nana was using her hands, the way she did when she wanted to make a point, and her mum looked

frightened and stubborn, as though Nana was telling her something she didn’t want to hear. But there was something more, something in her mother’s face it took Lally a moment to recognize—a sort of triumphant excitement.

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 crack-led 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 mine-field 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 fl eece 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.