Water Like A Stone

Chapter Eighteen

The tag end of the crime-scene tape rose and fl uttered, briefly animated by a gust of wind, then it dropped, hanging limply beside its anchoring stake as though exhausted by its effort. Gemma and Juliet Newcombe stood outside the tape’s boundary, surveying the ruin of Juliet’s building site.

A sea of muck stretched before them, the sodden ground pock-marked by the treads of heavy equipment and human boots. The prospect was as desolate as the moon, and a good bit messier. Figures in overalls came and went from the shell of the dairy barn, and the sporadic sounds of hammering and banging echoed like shotgun retorts in the cold air.

Juliet stared, her face stamped with dismay, then fury seemed to propel her into motion. She ducked under the tape and set off across the muck like a Valkyrie going to battle. Gemma, with a wince of regret for her London shoes, followed more carefully, wondering what she had got herself into.

Even though she’d urged Kincaid to go with Chief Inspector Babcock, she hadn’t been prepared for the frustration that had gripped her as she watched them drive away.

On returning to the farmhouse, it had been a relief when Rosemary and Hugh insisted on taking the children into the shop with them. Juliet had said quietly that she meant to get some things from her house, as she knew Caspar had an appointment out of Nantwich that morning. Juliet hadn’t asked for help, but her nervousness had been obvious, and when Gemma offered to accompany her, she accepted without argument.

First, however, Juliet had been determined to check on her building site, in hopes that the police would be finished and she could get her crew back to work. That that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon was all too obvious.

“Hey, you!” A beefy man wearing a police safety jacket thrown over his suit had spied Juliet. Breaking off his conference with one of the overalled men, he charged towards them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see this is restricted?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Juliet shouted back.

“This is my job site. What are you doing to my building?”

The man didn’t need the police jacket for identification—he had

“copper” written all over him, subtitled “copper in a bad temper over his assignment.” His face took on a deeper hue of puce. “Look, lady—”

“It’s not ‘lady,’ ” Gemma said icily, stepping forward. “It’s Mrs.

Newcombe. And I’m Detective Inspector James, Metropolitan Police.”

“Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen Mum,” he answered. “I’m not going to tell you two a—” He stopped, his mouth hanging open un-flatteringly midword, and the florid color drained from his face.

Gemma had pulled her identification from her bag and raised it to his eye level.

“Shit,” he said succinctly, then looked even more horrified.

“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize—”

“What ever happened to community policing?” Gemma asked with

cutting sarcasm. “Where I come from, we generally try to establish a good relationship with the tax-paying public, as difficult as that may be.”

“I didn’t know—”

“I don’t care if you thought we were the local bag ladies.” A glance at Juliet’s anxious face reminded Gemma that, while she might be enjoying this little skirmish, it wasn’t doing anything to ease her companion’s mind. She summoned a smile. “Look. Sergeant, is it?” It was an educated guess, considering that Babcock had left him overseeing a less than glamorous job while the DCI hared off after a fresh murder, and his instant deferral to her rank made it unlikely he was an inspector himself.

“Rasansky, ma’am,” he answered, tight-lipped.

“Sergeant Rasansky, what is going on here? Have you found something new?”

“No, ma’am. The DCI ordered a deconstruction crew. Waste of time, if you ask me.”

“Deconstruction?” Juliet grasped Gemma’s arm. “What does that mean?”

“Just what it sounds, I’m afraid,” Gemma answered with a sigh.

“It means that Chief Inspector Babcock thinks there’s a possibility that where there was one body, there might be more. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“But—” Juliet took an involuntary step forward, but stopped when she saw Rasansky’s glare. “But that mortar work over the old manger was the only sign of disturbance—”

“Nevertheless, he’s got to be thorough.” Gemma thought of the horrors discovered in the garden and cellar of Fred and Rosemary West’s Gloucestershire home, a lesson no British police officer was likely to forget. Babcock didn’t know enough at this point to rule out multiple murders.

“But this will delay construction for months. The Bonners might

even pull out altogether.” Juliet looked close to tears. “Can’t I at least oversee what they’re doing so that they damage things as little as possible?”

Her distress seemed to soften Rasansky’s attitude. “I’m sorry, miss. It’s strictly authorized personnel. But this crew’s good, and I’m sure you’ll be compensated for any damages.” He seemed to have recovered some of his assurance, however, and fixed Gemma with a hard stare. “If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, what’s the Met got to do with this?”

“We’re consulting with DCI Babcock,” she said briskly. “I’d like to have a look round the perimeter while I’m here, but you needn’t trouble yourself. I’ll let you know if I have any further questions.”

She nodded at him while taking a firm grip on Juliet’s arm and turning her in the direction of the canal.

Juliet began to protest as Gemma led her towards the humpbacked bridge. “What are we—”

“I’ve no authority to pull rank on him, or to poke about, and I’d just as soon he not realize it,” Gemma whispered. “But I do want to have a look at the canal from here.”

They picked their way through ruts and pools of slush until they reached the old stone bridge. “It doesn’t go anywhere,” Gemma said in surprise when they stopped on the slight rise at the bridge’s center. A green- and- brown checkerboard of fields stretched away on the other side, bordered by a distant line of trees.

“It does.” Juliet smiled a little for the first time that morning. “It gives access to the towpath. There are any number of bridges like this on the waterways.”

Gemma turned, slowly, as the wind tugged at her coat with probing fingers. The haze that had dulled the morning at Barbridge had condensed into solid cloud, and the gray bowl of the sky seemed to press down on the landscape. The canal beneath them, unruffled by the wind, held the sky in mirrored perfection.

To the north, a half dozen narrowboats were lined up opposite

the towpath, their primary colors glowing in contrast to the dullness of the day.

“Permanent moorings,” Juliet explained. “Leased from the land-owner.”

From this perspective, Gemma could see that the dairy barn would have a view of these boats, and of the pretty stone bridge, and of the curve of the canal in either direction. Perhaps the place was more desirable than she’d imagined, but that wasn’t what piqued her curiosity.

She pointed to the north. “How far to Barbridge from here?”

The distance had seemed to flash past coming by road, and she thought the canal ran more or less parallel.

“I don’t know,” Juliet answered. “A mile. Maybe a little more.”

Gemma frowned. “Is there any way to get to the canal by road between here and there?”

“No. You’d have to cut across the fields. Why?”

“It just seems odd to me,” Gemma said, shrugging. “Two bodies within such a short distance of each other, and the second following so soon on the discovery of the first.” She turned to Juliet. “Did the woman who was found this morning have any connection with your building site?”

“Not that I know of. But—are you suggesting her death had something to do with the discovery of that baby’s body?” Juliet’s voice rose on a note of horror.

“No, no, I’m not suggesting anything, really, just thinking aloud.

There’s no need for you to be concerned.”

But Juliet was shaking her head. “That’s too much. If something else holds up this job, I don’t know what I’ll do. I know that sounds horribly selfish, and it’s not that I don’t care about that poor woman who was killed last night. But I can’t make payroll for my crew, and if I lose them, I’m as good as finished.”

Recognizing the signs of imminent panic, Gemma realized she’d have to put her speculations aside. She threw an arm round Juliet’s

shoulders and turned her back towards the car, saying, “Never mind that now. The first thing we have to do is get your things. Then we’ll think about what’s next.”

The cabin door swung open before Althea could knock, and Gabriel Wain pulled her inside, roughly. The salon curtains were tightly closed, and a single lamp cast a circle of yellow light on the drop-down table. The room was as cold as it had been the previous day, and the fire in the stove burned low.

Althea’s eyes were still adjusting to the dimness as she heard Gabriel’s hoarse voice in her ear. “Is it true? Is it true what they’re saying?

That she’s dead?” His fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arm.

“If you mean Annie Constantine, yes, she’s dead.”

For an instant, she thought she would cry out from the pain in her arm. Then he released her, turning away, and it seemed to Althea that he shrank before her eyes.

Cradling the oxygen tank against her chest, she rubbed at her arm with her free hand. Now she could see that the children were huddled on the bench by the table, their eyes enormous in frightened faces. There was no sign of Rowan.

Gabriel spoke to his son without turning back. “Joseph, go up top and tidy up. We’ll need to pump out and fill the water tank. And take your sister with you.”

The children stood obediently, and as they edged past Althea, she had to resist an unexpected urge to touch the boy’s curling hair.

When they had gone, Gabriel Wain faced her once more, his expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry for the trouble you’ve taken,” he said. “But we won’t be needing what you’ve brought.” He nodded at the oxygen tank.

Althea’s heart thumped. “Your wife. Is she—”

“Much the same. She’ll be all right.”

She stared at him. “But she won’t. I thought I explained—” Then

she realized what he had meant when he spoke to the children, and to her. “You can’t think of leaving,” she said, shocked.

“It’s best,” he answered shortly. “Now if you’ll—”

“Mr. Wain, I don’t think you realize how . . . difficult . . . things are going to be for your wife. I can help her. Why would you refuse her that?”

“We can’t be doing with interference. The police—”

“Why would the police need to speak to you? What happened to Mrs. Constantine was dreadful, but surely no one would think it had any connection with you.”

He rubbed a hand across his unshaven chin. “You can’t know that.

I— When she came to the boat, on Christmas Day. We had words.”

“Words?”

“A row. It was Rowan who insisted she come aboard. I’d told her we wanted nothing to do with her, to leave us be. Why should she come poking into our lives, after all this time?”

“She only wanted to help you.”

“And where does that leave us now?” he hissed at her, and she heard the despair.

“With me.” Althea said this with more assurance than she felt.

But even as she wondered if this man could have done such a terrible thing to Annie Constantine, she rejected it. She would swear the news had been a blow.

Then doubt niggled at her. Could he have argued with Annie again, struck her in a fit of temper, then left her, not realizing how badly she was injured?

“Gabriel. Did you see Annie Constantine last night?”

“No. I never laid eyes on the woman after the two of you left the boat yesterday.” He met her eyes, and she thought she heard a note of pleading under the roughness of his tone.

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” she said.

He turned away, suppressing a bitter laugh. “Would that were true.” The boat rocked gently as the children moved about above s

decks. “I tell you we have to go. The children—we can’t risk staying.”

Althea considered, running over the possibilities in her mind. He could move the boat, and she could meet them at some prearranged mooring to change out the oxygen—but no. She shook her head at her own stupidity.

“Did anyone hear you arguing with Annie that day?” she asked.

“Likely the whole of Barbridge.”

“Then you can’t leave. Don’t you see? The police will be interviewing everyone in the area. Someone is bound to tell them they heard the two of you in a slanging match, and they’ll take your flight as an indication of guilt. It wouldn’t take them long to track you down—the waterways are finite. You’ll have to bluff it out.”

“But—what would I say?”

If Althea had needed reassurance, it was the ingrained honesty of a man who couldn’t manufacture a lie. “Tell them it was a boater’s row. Say she moored badly, and scraped your boat. It wouldn’t be the first time tempers were lost over a bit of bad steering.”

Gabriel was nodding, agreeing with her.

“Was anyone close enough to hear differently?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then maybe they won’t take it further. And you mustn’t volunteer that you knew her.” Even as she spoke, Althea wondered what had possessed her. She, who had spent most of her working life helping the police.

“I’ll get Sam’s things if you’ll gather up Lally’s,” Juliet told Gemma as they climbed the stairs to the first floor.

The house seemed unsettlingly quiet, unwelcoming, and Gemma thought she must have absorbed some of Juliet’s nervousness. They had checked to make sure there was no sign of Caspar’s car at either house or office before going in, and even then they had stood in the

entrance hall, listening, before doing a quick recce of the downstairs rooms.

Chiding herself for being overimaginative, Gemma asked as briskly as she could, “What sort of things should I get?”

What did it matter if Caspar Newcombe did come home, she told herself. Juliet certainly had every right to be there, and to take whatever personal things she needed.

Unfortunately, Gemma had seen the results of too many domestic disputes to be entirely comforted by her own commonsense advice.

“Oh, just undies, a change of jeans and jumpers.” Juliet pointed to the first door on the left of the upstairs hall. “God knows, whatever I chose would be wrong; I thought you might do better.” The strain between mother and daughter had been evident that morning, and Gemma had sensed Juliet’s relief when her parents had taken the children.

Although she felt much better qualified to pick out boys’ things than girls’, Gemma followed Juliet’s direction without protest. Lally’s door was closed, and on it she had tacked a sheet of paper with a carefully hand-drawn skull and crossbones. Beneath the graphic, she had printed KEEP OUT, then below that, in parentheses, (THAT MEANS

YOU, SAM!).

“Sorry, love,” Gemma whispered, and turned the knob. The door swung open and she stood on the threshold, expelling a breath of surprise. She had been expecting openly expressed rebellion—what she found was a room that seemed to bear little imprint of its teenage occupant.

The walls were rose, the duvet a floral mint- and- rose print, the upholstered armchair by the window a coordinating mint-and-rose stripe. A few stuffed animals sat grouped at the head of the hastily made bed; the framed prints on the walls were variations on horses grazing in dreamily impressionistic meadows. These were a child’s things—had Lally held on to them by choice? And if so, why?

The room was too tidy as well, except for a few items of clothing tossed haphazardly on a bench at the foot of the bed and the snaggle-toothed appearance of dressing- table drawers not quite shut.

Sniffing, Gemma caught the faint drift of cheap perfume, the sort that teenage girls bought at Woolworths or the Body Shop with their pocket money, and the normality of it eased her disquiet. She was letting her imagination run away with her again. She certainly didn’t know Lally well enough to make judgments based on something as superficial as her lack of boy-band posters and black drapes.

The sound of Juliet moving around in the next room, opening and shutting doors and drawers, spurred her into action. Juliet hadn’t given her a bag, so the first thing was to find a hold all or suitcase.

Rummaging through the wardrobe, the best she came up with was an empty, slightly worn backpack. Setting the pack on the bed, she quickly riffled through the chest of drawers, pulling out folded panties and bras that were little more than bits of lace and padding. She smiled a bit, remembering when she had worn such things so proudly and she and her sister had fought over who needed them most.

When her hands were full, she turned back to the bed and saw that the pack had tipped over, spilling a brightly colored bit of paper or foil onto the floor. She reached for it absently, then froze as her fingers closed round the small packet and she realized what she held.

It was a condom, wrapped in colored foil.

Gemma dumped the neatly folded clothes on the bed and reached for the backpack. She felt inside, exploring the depths until she found the pocket that had come open.

A sharp edge jabbed her finger, and she pulled out more condoms, a half dozen, their foil wrappers as cheerful as confetti. Sinking down onto the edge of the bed, Gemma thought furiously. Surely the novelty condoms were every schoolgirl’s idea of sophistication, passed giggling from friend to friend at lunch break. Possession didn’t necessarily mean that Lally had a use for them.

She slipped the condoms back into the bag and picked up the

clothes, then stopped, her nose wrinkling. There was something else, a hint of a familiar smell.

This time she protected her fingers with a handkerchief, searching more thoroughly and feeling along the seams of the innermost pockets. Her diligence rewarded her with a bumpy, thumbnail-size packet of cling film. Carefully, she peeled back the clear layers of plastic, but her stomach was plummeting even before she saw what the film held. Tablets. White, unstamped, some oval, some round.

They could be anything, of course, but Gemma suspected the ovals were Xanax, or a similar tranquilizer, and the round tablets Ecstasy. The round tablets were unscored, and had that slightly homemade look. In any case, she was quite sure neither of the pills was something Lally should have.

But there was still something more; the smell was stronger now.

She felt again, and her fingers closed on a softer packet. She knew what it was before she saw the contents. Pot, and a sizable amount.

She sat, staring down at what she held, until Juliet’s voice came anxiously from the hall. “Gemma, are you almost ready? We need to go, soon.”

With a jerk, Gemma shoved the drugs into her pocket and stuffed the clothes into the pack, all the while swearing under her breath. She called out, “Coming,” as she hurried to pull jeans and tops from the drawers, adding them to the pack until she thought she had enough for a few days’ wear.

Then she stopped, her hand on the doorknob, and took a breath.

What the hell was she going to do about this?

How could she tell Juliet what she had found, today of all days?

And how could she not?

“Juliet . . .” Gemma paused, concentrating on stirring the too-hot-to- taste bowl of leek soup before her on the small café table. Suspect-ing that Juliet had subsisted through the morning on nothing but

nerves and multiple cups of coffee, she’d insisted that they get some lunch once they were safely away from the Newcombes’ house.

Juliet had agreed, if reluctantly, and within a quarter of an hour they were seated in the tiny tea shop called the Inglenook, just up Pillory Street from the bookshop. It was a bit late for a cooked lunch, but the proprietor had suggested his wife’s prizewinning soup, and the steam rising from Gemma’s bowl smelled heavenly.

And it was just as well, she thought, that they’d missed the height of the lunch crowd, as only one other table was occupied, providing the opportunity for a fairly private conversation, if only she could fi gure out what to say.

It had taken her only a moment’s contemplation to realize that she couldn’t, in good conscience, ignore what she’d found in Lally’s room. She put herself in Juliet’s place—what if someone discovered evidence that Kit had been using drugs, and didn’t tell her or Duncan? She would want to know, and would be slow to forgive anyone who kept it from her.

That decision made, her first instinct had been to tell Duncan and let him deal with it. She’d realized quickly, however, that that was merely cowardice on her part.

Gemma took a tiny sip of the soup, which was as good as it smelled, then made another stab at finding an opening. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, knowing what to do with teenagers, even under the best of circumstances?”

Juliet looked up from her soup, one dark eyebrow arched in surprise, and Gemma was struck by her sudden but fleeting resemblance to Duncan. More often, she’d seen Rosemary in Juliet, and occasionally a smile or a tilt of the head that made her think of Hugh. “I suppose so,” Juliet said slowly, rotating her spoon. “Lally was such a sweet child, always eager to please. And now—sometimes I wonder what happened to that little girl, if she’s even still there.”

Hearing the pain in Juliet’s voice, Gemma knew she’d struck a nerve. “I doubt Lally knows herself.” She ate a little more of her soup,

then broke off a piece of crusty brown bread and peeled the foil cover from a packet of butter. “When I was Lally’s age, I remember my mum telling me I must have been abducted by aliens.” Juliet smiled, and encouraged, Gemma went on. “Was Lally having a difficult time even before things got so rough with Caspar?”

Frowning, Juliet said, “I don’t know, really. It seems as if this entire year’s been hard for her, but now I wonder if there were signs earlier and I simply missed them.”

Gemma thought of how blind they had been to the problems Kit was having at school, and swallowed a little too hastily. She coughed until her eyes watered, but waved off Juliet’s concern.

Then she thought about Kit’s association with Lally, and felt a clutch of dread. Surely they could trust him not to get involved with drugs, whatever he might feel about Lally—he’d always seemed such a sensible boy. But a sliver of doubt wedged in her heart like an ice fragment, and she found she’d lost her appetite.

“Of course, it’s been worse since Peter died,” said Juliet, and Gemma looked up in surprise.

“Peter?”

“A friend of Lally’s at school. Peter Llewellyn. He drowned in the canal. There was . . .” Juliet pushed her plate away, as if she, too, suddenly found it difficult to force food down, no matter how good.

“There was alcohol involved. It was such a shock—Peter was the last boy anyone would have expected . . . And Lally, Lally seemed to take it very hard, but she wouldn’t talk to me about it.”

Gemma saw her opening. “Was there anything else indicated in the boy’s death?”

“Anything

else? What do you mean?” The baffled tone told Gemma that Juliet wasn’t going to make this easy for her.

“Drugs. Did they find drugs in Peter’s system?”

“No.” Juliet shook her head. “No. Not that I heard. And I can’t imagine that they did. These kids, they’re just babies, really. I mean, experimenting with alcohol is one thing, but—”

“Jules.” Gemma found herself using Duncan’s nickname for his sister, an intimacy she wouldn’t have contemplated an hour ago.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

Juliet looked at her, her dark gray eyes dilating with apprehension, but she didn’t speak.

Glancing round the room, Gemma saw that the only other customer, a woman in the back corner, had taken out her mobile phone and was murmuring into it. The proprietor had disappeared into the kitchen. Still, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m sorry.

There’s no easy way to say this. But when I was getting Lally’s clothes, I found some things in her backpack. Drugs.”

“What?” Juliet said, blankly. Then, “No, that’s not possible.”

But in spite of her protest, her oval face paled. “Did you say her backpack? Lally has her backpack with her.”

“This was an old one, in the wardrobe. The one I put her clothes in.”

Blowing out her lips in a little puff of relief, Juliet tried a smile.

“Lally hasn’t used that since last year. She must have loaned it to someone who left the things in it, by accident.”

Gemma reached out and laid her fingers lightly on Juliet’s wrist.

“Juliet, I really am sorry. But no one forgets they’ve left things like this lying about. The pills, maybe, but not the other. There was marijuana, too. And even if Lally was keeping the stuff for someone else, she’s involved in something dangerous. You had to know.”

“Pot?” whispered Juliet, her argument abandoned. “And what sort of pills?”

Gemma sighed. “I suspect some of the pills might be a ’pam drug, Valium or Xanax. Tranquilizers. Do you or Caspar have a prescription?” When Juliet shook her head, she went on. “The other tablets look homemade—I suspect they’re Ecstasy.”

“But that’s not all that bad, is it?” Juliet asked, her voice rising on a shred of hope. “I mean—I read about raves—” She brought her

hands together, twisting them in her lap as if one were seeking comfort from the other. They had begun to tremble. “Oh, Christ,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it, there must be some mistake.”

Gemma couldn’t bring herself to mention the condoms, not now.

Silence descended on their little table. Their unfinished bowls of soup had cooled; the scattered crumbs of bread lay drying on the cheerful tablecloth. Closing her eyes, Juliet sat so still she might have fallen asleep. The woman sitting alone finished her conversation and snapped her mobile phone closed, glancing curiously at Gemma and Juliet as she made her way to the register.

The own er emerged from the kitchen, engaging the woman in friendly banter as he rang up her bill—she was obviously a regular customer.

Opening her eyes, Juliet fixed Gemma with a burning stare, and under cover of the voices of the owner and customer, said quietly,

“I’ll kill her.” Spots of color flared high on her pale cheeks.

“No.” Gemma had been thinking furiously, ever since she’d found Lally’s stash. “Juliet, wait. I’m not suggesting you ignore this—God forbid—but I think you should hold off for a few days before you talk to her about it.” It seemed to Gemma that both mother and daughter were stretched to the breaking point, and that a confrontation might have disastrous consequences.

“Things are so unsettled just now—I’m afraid you may both say things you’ll regret. Wait at least until you’ve worked out a plan for you and the children, and until you’ve told her what you mean to do.

Looking round, Gemma saw that the café’s own er had disappeared into the kitchen. She reached into her pocket and passed the bags surreptitiously across the small table. “Deal with this when you’re calmer.”

Juliet gazed wide-eyed at what she held. Then she stuffed the bags into her handbag. Her shoulders slumping, she said, “Promise me this time. Promise me you won’t tell Duncan.”

“So what did she look like?” Lally sat back on her heels and looked at Kit across the opened case of the latest Harry Potter. They’d spent most of the morning, and the last hour since lunch, unpacking and shelving the boxes of books in the small back room of the bookshop.

“Was there blood?”

“Just bugger off, okay?” said Kit. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dropping her gaze, Lally ran a fingertip over the slightly dusty spines of the books left in the box. He thought he’d discouraged her, but after a moment she said more quietly, “Did she—did she look like she was asleep?”

The change in her tone made Kit look up. “No. Why?”

“I just wondered, that’s all.” She gave an elaborate shrug and stretched, showing a sliver of midriff. “God, I’m dying for a ciggie.”

“Don’t be daft,” Kit said crossly, although he was glad enough of the change of subject. “You shouldn’t smoke, and I don’t think we’re supposed to go out.” Lally had been complaining since Rosemary had ignored Lally’s plea for hamburgers and brought in sandwiches instead, and the constant harping was giving Kit a pounding headache.

“Why shouldn’t we?” Lally protested. “They’re treating us like prisoners.” She pulled out another half dozen books and stacked them carelessly on the edge of the table. “Shouldn’t we get a trial first?”

Both Rosemary and Hugh had been tactful enough—none of the children had actually been forbidden to go out of the shop, but tasks had been found to keep them busy from the minute they arrived. And although nothing had been said, Kit suspected it was because the adults didn’t want Lally or Sam to see their dad. He also knew that Lally’s mum had taken away her mobile phone—that had been the other subject of Lally’s ongoing complaint—and he guessed that Rosemary and Hugh were worried that Casper might come into the shop and demand to take the children, as he had yesterday in the pub.

Rosemary had given a little start every time the bell on the shop door rang, and Hugh had come down often from his small office on the first floor, making some excuse to check on them, once stopping to give Kit an awkward pat on the shoulder. Kit had caught Rosemary watching him as well, with a mixture of kindness and concern in her eyes that made him feel slightly uncomfortable and funnily warm at the same time.

Unlike his cousin, Kit was happy enough to stay in the shop. He liked the slightly musty smell emanating from the used- book section; he liked the higgledy- piggledy unevenness of the floors and the walls; he liked the weight of the books in his hands and the lure of the bright covers, the promise of adventures that would take him out of himself. He didn’t mind being kept busy, either—that held the recurring visions of what he had seen that morning at bay.

“Watch the books,” he said sharply as the stack behind Lally’s head teetered.

“I don’t care about the bloody books,” she retorted, but pushed the volumes back from the edge of the table and straightened them a little. She gave Kit a sly glance from under the wing of dark hair that had fallen across her face. “We could just slip out the back door.”

“No.” Kit collapsed the box he’d emptied with a little more force than necessary. “And even if we did, where are you going to get cigarettes? You can’t buy them.”

Lally grinned. “Oh, there are always places where you can get things. You know the pub round the back of the shop? This bloke that works behind the bar, he’ll buy them for me if I give him the money.”

“But that’s—” The bell on the shop door jangled, startling them both, then Kit saw Lally relax as a distinctly female voice answered Rosemary’s greeting. So she was nervous about her dad after all.

“It’s Mrs. Armbruster,” Lally whispered. “She’ll talk Nana’s ear off for an hour. Come on. If we go now, we can be back before anyone notices we’re gone.”

“What about Sam and Toby?”

“Granddad took them upstairs to play draughts. They won’t be looking for us. Come on.” She stood and moved lightly towards the door, her trainer-shod feet soundless on the wooden floorboards.

“Lally, no, wait.” Kit pushed himself up, but his feet seemed to have tangled themselves together and he stumbled awkwardly. “We shouldn’t—they’d worry—”

She stopped, her hand on the knob of the back door. “I’ll go on my own, then. You can cover for me.” Her eyes held disdain, and a challenge.

Kit flushed, shamed at being treated like a child. But worse was the thought of Lally alone on the street. What if her dad saw her and snatched her up? Then he, Kit, would be responsible for losing her.

If Lally was determined to go out, he would have to go with her.

“Make it quick,” Kit hissed at her as they stood on the pavement outside the pub. It was a quiet time of day, and he could see through the leaded window that the bar was almost empty. “How are you going to manage this, anyway? You can’t go in.”

They had gone out without coats, and he was already shivering.

The sky had darkened to the purple-gray of tarnished silver, and he thought he could smell snow in the air.

“You’ll see.” Lally tugged down the hem of her cotton sweatshirt, raised her chin, and pulled open the door. Stepping over the threshold, she called out, “Can I use your loo?”

Through the window, Kit saw the barman look up. He had spots on his pudgy face, and was probably not much more than eighteen.

“Sorry, love.” The barman shook his head as he wiped a cloth across the bar top. “You’re underage. Find the public toilets, or go to the Crown. They’ll let you in.”

Making a show of jiggling impatiently, Lally said, “Please. I’m desperate. I don’t think I can make it that far. I’ll be really quick.”

“Oh, all right. But shut the bloody door, and hurry up.”

Lally flashed Kit a smile and slipped inside. He saw her disappear into a passage that led towards the rear of the pub. After one more flourish with his cloth, the barman reached for something under the bar, then stepped casually into the same passage.

A moment later, he reappeared, then Lally emerged and quickly crossed the room, hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. “Ta, love,”

she tossed cheekily over her shoulder as she pushed her way out the door.

“That’s Sean,” she explained as they started back towards the bookshop, Kit hurrying her along with a hand on her elbow. “Lives down the road from us. He’d do anything for me.” Lally fi shed a packet of Benson & Hedges from her sweatshirt pocket and began peeling the cellophane from the top. The wind caught the ephemeral scrap as she tossed it away, spinning it like a bit of tinsel come to life before it disappeared.

Pulling a cigarette from the pack and a plastic lighter from her pocket, she slowed and ducked under a shop-window awning. “Wait,”

she said, holding the cigarette to her lips and shielding the tip with her hand as she flicked the lighter.

“Lally, stop pissing about. You can’t stand here in the street and smoke. Someone will see you.” Nervous impatience edged Kit’s voice.

“So? What am I going to do? Wait until we get back to the shop and have a smoke in the back room? That was the point of this whole exercise, remember, for me to have a smoke.” She inhaled and leaned a little farther back into the awning’s cover, watching him with narrowed eyes before looking away.

Kit stared at her profile. For just an instant, he had the oddest sensation that he was seeing her as she might look in ten years, or twenty, the delicate contours of her face drawn and hardened by time and experience.

But he said only, “They’ll miss us. What on earth are we going to say if they’ve been looking for us?”

“I’ll think of something,” she snapped back at him. “For God’s sake, Kit, don’t be so wet. You sound just like my friend Peter. ‘Don’t smoke, Lally,’ ” she mimicked. ‘Don’t drink, Lally. Don’t do this, don’t do that. You might get into trouble, Lally.’ ” Dropping her half-smoked cigarette, she ground it viciously into the pavement with her heel. “It was all bollocks. In the end, he was no different— No, he was worse.” She glared at Kit, as if daring him to argue. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears as she turned away, starting back towards the shop.

An icy dart of rain stung Kit’s cheek, then another. It had started to sleet. Running after her, he struggled to find his voice. “Why?

Why was he worse?”

The rising wind snatched her words, throwing them back at him in a gust of disembodied fury. “Because. Because he was a fucking hypocrite, that’s why.”