Water Like A Stone

Chapter Seventeen

Althea Elsworthy stowed her medical bag in the boot, then climbed gratefully into the relative warmth of the car. Danny, who had sat up at her approach, rested his chin on the seat back and looked at her expectantly. Usually, when she returned to the car, she gave him a biscuit from the large plastic tub she kept on the floor in the front. Of course, he was quite capable of chewing through the container and helping himself, but he was an obedient dog and had never taken advantage of her absence.

“You’re a good boy,” she said, as she always did, and popped open the tub. Danny took the proferred biscuit delicately, but as he crunched the treat he scattered crumbs and spittle on the towel she kept draped over the seat back for just that purpose.

Ritual satisfied, he settled down again on the seat with his head on his paws, watching her with an eternal canine optimism she wished she shared.

While he trusted that she knew what to do next, she was struggling to understand the action she’d just taken—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say “not taken.”

Why had she remained silent? An easy enough explanation was

that the first sight of Annie Lebow’s body had left her simply too stunned to speak. Her lack of intimation seemed odd now. There had been no frisson of foreknowledge when the call came asking her to attend the body of a woman found dead on the towpath below Barbridge. Most likely a jogger struck down by a heart attack, she’d thought, and had merely been thankful that the location of the body would make it easy for her to call in on the Wains. Not even the sight of the boat had cued her.

But her job required a memory for physical detail, and the fl eece top had provided the first jolt of recognition. Then the leather boating shoes, one separated from the foot and lying on its side, as if it had been casually kicked free. After that, the sight of the fair hair, now matted, and the strong jaw, half hidden by the raised forearm, had merely served as confirmation.

Beyond that point, her failure to admit she knew the victim became harder to justify. If Ronnie Babcock hadn’t been below decks, perhaps she would have spoken to him then, when she’d got her breath back from the first shock. But there had only been his green detective constable, hovering, so she’d waited, trying to concentrate on the task at hand, trying to distance herself from the vision of Annie Lebow’s animated face seen just the previous day.

And then, when Babcock had climbed up from the depths of the boat, with him had been a tall, sharp-eyed man whom Babcock had introduced as a Scotland Yard superintendent. No explanation had been given as to why, or how so quickly, the Yard had been called to the scene of a rural suspicious death, but Althea had felt her heart give an unexpected lurch.

She’d realized that if she admitted her recent connection with Annie, she’d have to explain about the Wains.

But now that she’d had a few moments to think, doubt assailed her. Was it just coincidence that Annie Lebow had encountered a family she hadn’t seen since she’d left Social Services, then been killed? Could Gabriel Wain have had something to do with Annie’s s

death? And if so, why? Gabriel might have accepted Annie’s help grudgingly, but Althea couldn’t imagine that he would have harmed her.

With sudden impatience, she thrust her uncertainties aside. She had promised to help Rowan Wain, and now it seemed more important than ever that she keep her word. No matter that she’d have to wade through the local constabulary in order to visit the boat—if anyone inquired, she’d simply tell the truth. She was visiting a patient.

Still, she looked round before getting out of the car, and it was only when the officer watching over the bridge had gone to consult with one of his mates farther up the lane that she retrieved the oxygen tank from the boot and started for the boat. There was no point in complicating matters unnecessarily, she told herself briskly, but she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that she was being watched.

Although Kincaid usually disliked being driven by someone he didn’t know well, he made an effort to relax into the padded leather passenger seat of Ronnie Babcock’s BMW. He told himself he should appreciate the chance to concentrate on the landscape and clear his mind for the interview to come.

In the end, it had been Gemma who’d insisted he go with Babcock to see Roger Constantine. Listening in on Babcock’s interview with Kit had been enough to convince him that Gemma was right—

they couldn’t just walk away from this and pretend nothing had happened. And if that was the case, she’d argued, it made sense for him to make use of his connection with Babcock, especially as Babcock seemed willing to accommodate him. He’d just have to be careful to maintain his role as spectator, as he suspected Babcock would draw the line at active interference in his investigation.

“You said this fellow Constantine was a journalist?” he asked Babcock. “I wonder at our odds of catching him at home.”

Babcock narrowed his eyes in an effort of recall. “I think I remember Annie saying he was a features writer for one of the major northwest papers. Of course, we could have tried contacting him by phone first, but I’d prefer to break bad news in person if at all possible.” It sounded compassionate, but Kincaid knew there was calculation attached—it always paid to see the first reactions of those closest to the victim.

“Then we’ll hope he works from home, or that journalists take a long Christmas holiday.” Kincaid resisted the urge to pump an imaginary brake as Babcock slowed sharply for a slow- moving farm lorry.

When the way was clear, Babcock downshifted and zipped round it with ease. The road had begun to twist and turn, making an ideal showcase for the BMW’s power and maneuverability.

The character of the countryside changed rapidly as one traveled west from Nantwich. Within just a few miles, the land rose from the flat of the Cheshire Plain into gently wooded undulations, and the simple brick farmhouses began to sport brightly colored gingerbread trim. Kincaid had never learned what had inspired the architectural embellishments, but when he was a boy, the decoration had made him think of cottages in enchanted Germanic forests. The childhood that had allowed such imaginings now seemed impossibly distant, and the loss of his son’s opportunity for such innocence struck him as forcibly as a blow.

Ronnie Babcock took his eyes from the road to glance at Kincaid. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Sorry?” Kincaid responded.

Babcock said, “You’re remembering the Ford Anglia I had at school.”

Relieved, Kincaid said lightly, “Of course. But I never had the dubious pleasure of riding in it.” He recalled the car well, though, a Saloon special with Venetian-gold paintwork, held together with considerable assistance from baling wire. Ronnie had worked several after-school jobs to save the money for it, and the car had been his pride and joy.

“A good thing, too,” Babcock agreed. “I had a passenger or two fall out through the floorboards. I was thinking of building a roof ejector when the old girl finally clapped out on me.”

“You’ve done well for yourself, Ronnie.” Kincaid’s gesture took in the BMW, but he meant more than that.

Babcock gave a sardonic smile. “I suppose I have. Just look at me now—overworked, with an overly mortgaged unheated house, and no one but an elderly aunt for company. Just what any working-class lad should strive for.”

“You’re not married, then?”

“Divorced. Just this last year.” Babcock’s grimace was worth a thousand words. “What about you? Why haven’t you and the lovely Gemma tied the knot?”

Taken aback, Kincaid glanced at his friend, but Babcock’s eyes were on the road.

“It’s complicated,” he said slowly. “In the beginning, we were working together, so I suppose we got in the habit of being secretive.

You know how it is. It would have been all right for me if it had come out, just a bit of nudge, nudge, wink, wink from the worst tossers in the locker room, that sort of thing. But for Gemma, it would have meant a permanent shadow on her career. There would always have been whispers that she’d slept her way into promotions, no matter how capable she proved herself.” Even now, the unfairness of it made his blood pressure rise, and he shook his head in disgust before going on. “So when she made inspector and transferred to another posting, we more or less kept on as we were. But then . . .”

Kincaid hesitated.

“Then we found out that Gemma was pregnant. We moved in together, but I—I think neither of us wanted to feel that—”

“Marriage was a necessity of circumstance?” Babcock finished for him when he halted again. “That would have been a blow to your pride.”

Kincaid nodded, feeling his face flush at the accuracy of the hit.

“Just so. It seems unutterably selfish now.”

Frowning, Babcock said, “But it’s been some time, hasn’t it? I met your younger boy, when I came to the house.”

“Oh, no,” Kincaid hastened to explain. “Toby is Gemma’s son, from her first marriage. We—Gemma lost our baby, halfway to term.

That was a year ago.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Babcock looked at him, his battered face creased in sympathy. “That’s a bloody shame.”

Not trusting himself to accept the commiseration, Kincaid went on, “Since then, we’ve just sort of muddled along, the four of us living as a family. Not unhappily,” he amended, afraid his words had implied that. “It’s just that—I don’t know if she’d have chosen differently, you see, if it hadn’t been for the child.” Kincaid realized it was the first time he’d admitted his fear, even to himself, and he felt suddenly as exposed as if he’d laid bare his chest to the knife.

“You could ask her,” Babcock suggested, as if it were the most reasonable response imaginable.

“Christ, no.” Kincaid shook his head. “I’d be forcing her into a corner then, and if she told me what I wanted to hear, I’d never be sure if she was being honest or just kind.” He thought of her refusal to discuss trying for another child, and felt cold.

He searched for a change of subject, glad that Babcock was momentarily distracted as he downshifted and left the A for a B road signposted no man’s heath. “That sounds a desolate place,” Kincaid offered, a little too quickly.

“A bit Shakespearean,” Babcock agreed. “But there’s a nice pub there, as it happens. That’s why I came this way, I suppose. Old habits.” With that ambiguous and uninviting comment, he fell silent, leaving Kincaid to gaze at the scenery and wonder about his friend’s reticence.

They were nearing the Welsh border, and he could see that it had

snowed more heavily here. Snow still lingered on the eaves of the isolated farmhouses, and as they passed through the pretty redbrick hill town of Malpas, the anti- icing grit crunched under the BMW’s tires.

A few miles farther north, the tree- lined lane dipped and curved into the hamlet of Tilston. Although they slowed to a crawl, reading the address plaques on the cottages and suburban bungalows lining the road, they still missed Roger Constantine’s house the first time past. The steep entrance to its drive faced away from them, so that they only saw the address when they had turned around at the postage stamp of a village green and come back from the opposite direction.

In a village of cottages and suburban bungalows, the Victorian lodge stood on a high bank above the road, screened from below by the large trees and shrubs of a mature garden.

“Blimey,” Babcock said eloquently as they bumped up the narrow gravel drive and pulled to a stop on the forecourt. “Nice digs for a journalist, wouldn’t you say?”

Kincaid had to agree. The house’s brick facade was a mellow rose rather than the harsh burnt red used often in Cheshire and North Wales, and the gleaming white trim looked freshly painted.

“Maybe he’s sold a few exclusives to the Sun, ” Kincaid quipped.

“My ex-wife would have killed for this,” Babcock muttered as they climbed from the car and crossed the raked gravel of the drive.

Kincaid merely nodded. He felt the weight of the coming interview descend on him—he had never learned to bear bad tidings easily. He took a preparatory breath, but before they reached the porch, the front door opened and a large German shepherd charged out at them. Kincaid’s life flashed before his eyes in the instant it took him to see that the dog was firmly attached to a lead held by a slight man with trimmed white hair and beard.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, reining the dog in with an admonishing “Jazz, easy.”

The dog subsided into a sit at the man’s left knee, but whined in protest.

“Are you Roger Constantine?” Babcock asked warily, having backed off a pace.

“Yes. What can I do for you?” Constantine was frowning now, and it occurred to Kincaid for the first time that in their casual clothes neither he nor Babcock radiated official import. The man probably thought they were selling double glazing.

Babcock took out his warrant card and displayed it as carefully as if Constantine were holding a loaded gun instead of the now-panting dog. “I’m Chief Inspector Babcock, Cheshire constabulary, and this is Superintendent Kincaid. Sorry to barge in on you unannounced—”

“Look, if this is about the gang story, I’ve already told your colleagues I can’t divulge—”

“No, this is a personal matter, Mr. Constantine. If we could speak to you inside.” Babcock made a statement of the question, and the first flash of uneasiness crossed Constantine’s face. Kincaid saw now that the white hair and beard had given a misleading impression of the man’s age; Constantine’s face was unlined, and the eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles were sharp and a very pale blue.

“All right,” Constantine agreed reluctantly, and in an aside to the dog added, “You’ll have to wait for your walk, Jazzy.” He turned to the door, motioning to them as he opened it. When he noticed Babcock still hesitating, he said, “Oh. Don’t mind the dog. He’s quite friendly, really.”

Kincaid went first, holding out a hand, palm down, for the dog to sniff. While the dog investigated the scents on his clothes, his tail now wagging, Kincaid took in the interior of the house with equal interest. An archway opened the central hall onto a sitting room to the left. Deep gold walls and white trim set off the gilded frames of pictures and mirrors and a beautiful black-and-white tile floor. Small touches—a potted fern on a stand, a few items of well- made caned

furniture scattered among heavier items—hinted at the Victorian history of the house.

Through an open door on the right, he glimpsed a plum-colored dining room filled with rich mahogany furniture, then Constantine was ushering them into a combined kitchen–sitting room at the back of the house.

Immediately, he saw that they had stepped offstage. This room, while expensively done with the requisite Aga and custom cabinetry, was cluttered with books and papers and used mugs. A laptop computer stood open on the large oak table, and a dog bed festooned with chew toys lay near the stove. The room still held the comforting breakfast scents of toast and coffee, with a faint underlying note of dog.

“I suppose you’d better sit,” said Constantine, scooping papers from two chairs and dumping them onto the already overflowing surface of a Welsh dresser. “Jazz, lie down on your bed,” he commanded the dog.

He took the chair by the laptop himself, and waited with an air of contained impatience for them to get on with whatever it was they wanted.

After a relieved glance at the dog’s retreating hindquarters, Babcock began, “Mr. Constantine, am I right in thinking that at one time you were married to Annie Constantine?”

Constantine frowned. “What do you mean, ‘were married’? We’re still married.”

Babcock flicked a startled glance in Kincaid’s direction before continuing. “Then you and your wife maintain separate domiciles?”

“Yes. She lives aboard her boat, although I don’t see why our marital arrangements are any business of yours. What’s going on here?” There was tension in his voice now, a thread of fear beneath the annoyance. Constantine was a journalist; although Babcock hadn’t identified Kincaid as Scotland Yard, he would realize that

two senior police officers even of local jurisdiction didn’t make routine inquiries.

“But your wife uses the name Lebow?” Babcock used the present tense carefully.

“Sometimes. It’s her maiden name. Look, what’s this about?”

The dog, which had been watching with its head on its paws, sat up and whined.

Babcock sat forward, his eyes fixed on Roger Constantine’s face.

“Mr. Constantine, I’m sorry to tell you that your wife was found dead this morning.”

“What?” Constantine stared at them. Light caught the reflective surface of his glasses, momentarily masking his eyes. “Is this some sort of joke? I just spoke to her last night. There must be a mistake.”

“No, sir. Mr. Cons—”

“It can’t have been Annie.” Constantine gripped the edge of the table, as if assailed by sudden vertigo, and it occurred to Kincaid that in his experience, women often accepted the news of a tragedy more quickly than men. It was as if women carried with them a constant intimation of mortality, while men assumed that both they and their loved ones were invincible.

“I knew your wife, Mr. Constantine,” Babcock said quietly. “I worked with her several times before she retired from Social Services. I identified her body myself.”

In the silence that followed, Kincaid imagined he heard the painful beat of his own heart. Then the dog rose, and the click of its nails on the tile brought a faint relief. It crossed to its master and laid its head on Constantine’s knee.

The man loosed one visibly trembling hand from the table and buried it in the ruff of the dog’s neck. “Oh, no. Christ. What—” He swallowed and tried again. “What happened? Was she ill? Was there an accident with the boat?”

A slight nod from Babcock surprised Kincaid, but he took up the cue. It was a useful technique, handing off the questioning from the person who had broken the news. “It looks as though your wife was attacked, Mr. Constantine. Sometime yesterday evening. What time did you speak with her?”

“Attacked? But why would—”

“I know this is difficult, Mr. Constantine,” Kincaid said. “But if you could just bear with us. It’s important that we get the details.”

He held Constantine’s gaze, and after a moment Constantine nodded and seemed to make an effort to pull himself together.

“It was—it must have been about eight. We’d just come back from our after-dinner walk. I was surprised when I saw it was Annie ringing, because she had just called the day before, to wish me happy Christmas. But she said she wanted to make a date for dinner—

tonight—I was supposed to see her tonight.” Shaking his head, Constantine pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his reddening eyes.

“Did she give a particular reason?”

“No. She just said she wanted to talk.”

Kincaid thought about the reserved woman he had met, and he couldn’t help comparing the almost Spartan neatness of the Lost Horizon with the jumble of this room. It seemed an unlikely juxta-position. “Mr. Constantine, I know you said you and your wife lived separately. Would you say you were estranged?”

“No. At least not in the ordinary sense of having had a quarrel or disagreement, if that’s what you mean.” Constantine seemed almost eager to talk now. “I know our living arrangements seem odd to other people, but our lives just diverged. She likes being on her own—she had some things she needed to sort out, after she left her job. And I was happy enough to stay on here, to look after the house.

We were—we never saw a need to consider divorce.”

“But you talked often?”

“Fairly often. Sometimes I wouldn’t hear from her for a few weeks.

That usually meant she was having a bad time.” Constantine looked from Kincaid to Babcock. “You’re certain she didn’t—”

“There’s no question that your wife harmed herself, Mr. Constantine,” Kincaid said, and saw an easing of the other man’s features.

Why this should be a reassurance, why suicide should seem worse than murder, he didn’t know—perhaps it was that the suicide of a loved one carried with it such responsibility for those left behind.

“Then if she— Was she robbed? I kept telling her— She didn’t have anything of value really, but the boat itself—” Constantine stood suddenly, running both hands through his already bristling white hair as if he could no longer contain his agitation.

Babcock stepped in. “There’s no sign that anything was taken from the boat, or from your wife’s person. We will, of course, need you to look things over for us at some point to confirm this.”

“But then—” Constantine’s eyes were wide, the pupils dilated.

The dog nudged his knee, whining, but he ignored it. “Then what the hell happened to my wife?” he said, his voice rising. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Babcock hesitated, and Kincaid guessed he was weighing the disadvantages of revealing the manner of death against his obligation to provide information to a grieving spouse. Constantine had said nothing to indicate any knowledge of the circumstances, and they wouldn’t be able to keep it to themselves for long in any case. “Your wife’s body was found on the towpath, not on the boat, Mr. Constantine,” Babcock said at last. “Someone hit her over the head.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Grasping the chair back, Constantine eased himself into it again without looking, like a blind man. “Why would anyone want to hurt my wife?”

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us that.”

“Annie never harmed anyone— For God’s sake, she hardly spoke to anyone.” Constantine’s tone was accusatory. “She wasn’t—tell me she wasn’t—” His face lost its little remaining color.

With surprising gentleness, Babcock said, “Your wife does not appear to have been sexually molested.”

Constantine dropped his face into his hands and sat, unmoving.

After a moment, Kincaid rose and went to the sink, finding a glass in the second cupboard he opened. As he filled it from the tap, he noticed a dusting of fine white hairs on the dark blue tile of the work top. It appeared that Roger Constantine and his German shepherd shared their house hold with a cat. He wondered if the cat had been Annie’s, and if so, why she had left it behind. He could imagine her with a cat, a tidy beast that echoed her reserve.

The water from the tap was icy and he held the glass for a moment, feeling the coolness against his fingertips as he gazed out the window above the sink. It overlooked the side garden, a swath of green winter grass studded with the bare silhouettes of fruit trees.

In spring, when the trees were in bloom, it must be magnificent.

What could have moved Annie Lebow to give all this up for life on a seven- by-sixty-foot boat, no matter how well outfitted?

He returned to the table and touched Roger Constantine on the shoulder. Looking up, Constantine took the glass and drained it as thirstily as a parched wanderer in the desert.

“Thanks,” Constantine said hoarsely as he set the empty tumbler on the table, then rubbed the back of his hand across his tear-streaked cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—there’s tea if you want.”

“No, we’re fine.” Kincaid sat again, this time in the chair nearest Constantine, and took the liberty of stroking the dog’s thick coat.

“Mr. Constantine—Roger—do you mind if I call you Roger?” Without waiting for Constantine’s assent, he went on, “Roger, do you and your wife own this house jointly?”

Constantine looked a little surprised at the question, but not alarmed. “No. Actually, it’s Annie’s family home. She inherited the place when her parents died. Merchant pirates, she liked to call the Lebows. Her great-great-great-grandfather started with one ship out

of Liverpool, and had built this place as a weekend getaway in the country by the time he retired.”

“Quite an accomplishment.”

“Yes, but Annie was always a little ashamed of the family history. She felt their fortune was built on exploiting the poor. I think it’s one of the reasons she went into social work—as a sort of penance.”

That would explain a good bit, Kincaid thought, including the means for the early retirement and the fact that even her self-imposed exile had reflected the best money could buy. He wondered if she had seen the irony of it.

It also opened up a Pandora’s box of questions, and he saw Babcock sit up a bit straighter, suddenly alert with interest.

“Your wife owned this place in its entirety, and she was content to let you stay here like a lodger?” Babcock raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Yes. We were married, for God’s sake,” Constantine answered defensively. “I told you—”

“It’s a nice deal, you have to admit.” Babcock shook his head.

“My ex should have been half so generous. And who stands to inherit, if your wife was the last of her family?”

“I do, as far as I know.” Constantine stared at him, the color rising in his fair skin. “You’re not suggesting I killed my wife for this house! That’s obscene.”

The dog tensed at his master’s tone, its hackles rising, and began a low, steady growl, just above the threshold of hearing. Withdraw-ing his hand, Kincaid wished he hadn’t sat quite so close to the beast.

“It is a substantial property,” said Babcock, undaunted. “Worth a pretty penny on the market, if one were a bit short of the ready.

Did you carry life insurance on your wife, by the way?” he added conversationally.

After a moment, Constantine answered reluctantly. “Yes. We insured one another, years ago, when we were first married. It’s a small premium—I’ve never thought to change it.” He looked from Babcock to Kincaid, outrage turning to appeal. “Jesus Christ. You can’t think—”

“Mr. Constantine,” asked Babcock, “what did you do last night, after your wife rang you?”

For the first time Kincaid thought he glimpsed a flicker of terror in the man’s eyes. “Nothing,” Constantine said. “I mean, I was here, working on a piece.” He gestured at the books and papers covering the table. “I’m up against a deadline.”

Babcock’s smile held all the warmth of a shark bite. “Is there anyone who can verify that, Mr. Constantine, other than your dog?”