Water Like A Stone

Chapter Twenty- six

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 s

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.”