the sensible thing. She could give it up, find an ordinary, respectable office job that would bring in a regular paycheck.
But oh, she loved her building work with a passion she’d never expected, loved even the days spent in blistering sun and freezing rain, days she came home so exhausted she fell asleep over her dinner. She had a knack for seeing what things could become, and for bringing brick and stone to life under her hands.
No, she wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t let Caspar take that from her, too, not if there was any way she could help it. What, then? Ask her parents for help? Bad enough that she would have to admit she had failed at her marriage, without begging for money as well.
Of course, she wouldn’t be penniless. Caspar would have to give her some financial assistance. But she knew him now, knew he would use his connections to find the best solicitor, knew he would juggle funds to reduce his apparent means and that Piers would help him, regardless of the cost to the children.
And the children—dear God, how could she tell the children she meant to leave their father? Lally would never forgive her. And Sam, what would it do to Sam, so vulnerable beneath his constant chatter?
But she could see now that she’d been a fool to think the children didn’t know what was happening, a fool not to realize that Caspar was poisoning them against her every day in little, insidious ways, and that he was prepared to do worse.
She had to think. She had to come up with a strategy that would protect her and the children. Steeling herself, she unlocked the door, switched off the light, and climbed into bed, her body tense as a spring. But there was no tread on the stairs, no click of the doorknob turning.
Slowly, the traumas of the day caught up with her. Her body warmed under the duvet, her muscles relaxed, and against her will,
her eyelids drifted closed. Hovering in that halfway state between sleeping and waking, she knew when the dream began that it was a dream.
She held a baby in her arms . . . Sam . . . no, Lally . . . She recognized the pink blanket with its leaping white sheep. The child stirred in her arms . . . She could feel the warmth of it against her breast . . . Then, as she looked down, the tiny red face melted away, bone blossoming beneath the skin, eyes sinking into the gaping pits of the sockets.
Juliet gasped awake and sat up, panting in terror. It was a dream, only a dream of the poor child she had found. Sam and Lally were safe. “Only a dream,” she whispered, easing herself down under the covers again. “Only a dream.”
But as her heart slowed, her senses began to register the faint pre-dawn creakings of the house. She had slept longer than she thought, and the night was almost over. Caspar wasn’t coming to bed at all.
A wave of fury washed over her, leaving her sick and shaking, slicked with sweat. He’d never meant to come up, never meant to face her after the things he’d said. Avoiding a confrontation was his way of punishing her, of keeping the upper hand.
Now she would have to get up in the morning, go down, and manage Christmas for the children as if nothing had happened, and he would be smug and vicious in his little victory.
And then a new thought struck her. Was he ahead of the game?
Was he plotting already, calculating the damage he could do? And the children—there had been something sly tonight in the way he had sucked up to Sam and Lally, complimenting and cajoling them.
The children. She clutched at the bed, as if the room had rocked on its foundations. What if he meant to take the children?
Christmas morning dawned cold and clear, with a sparkling layer of frost laid over the packed snow like icing on a cake. Ronnie Babcock s
greeted the beautiful day with a distinct lack of appreciation, and a reminder to himself to dig out his sunglasses or he’d have a permanent squint. His central- heating boiler had not miraculously repaired itself in the night, and after sleeping under every spare blanket and duvet he could find, he’d plunged out of bed with the temerity of an arctic explorer, bathing (thank God for immersion heaters) and shaving with dangerous haste. His reward for his fortitude was a seeping cut on his chin. Lovely, just bloody lovely.
And to top it off, he knew he couldn’t forgo his duty visit to his great-aunt Margaret, case or no case, and he had better get it over with before his appointment with Dr. Elsworthy at Leighton Hospital.
Margaret was his mother’s mother’s sister, and the only link remaining to his family. Nor had she anyone else. A childless spinster, she had been a fiercely independent career woman, overcoming her working-class background as her sister and his mother had never been able to do. Ronnie had admired her, even as a child, although he couldn’t say that he had known her well. Great-aunt Margaret hadn’t been a woman with a knack for children, and it was only in the last few years, with his mum gone, that he had begun to develop a relationship with her.
Unfortified even by his usual coffee—it was too cold in the kitchen to stand about while it brewed, much less drink it—he shrugged into his overcoat and headed for the door. But with his hand on the knob he hesitated, then, with another curse, turned back and picked up the single- malt whisky, red bow and all. He could always buy himself another—and better—bottle, but he couldn’t go calling on Christmas morning without a gift.
The private care home was on the outskirts of Crewe, in a neighborhood of quiet and prosperous semidetached houses. He knew the place wasn’t bad as far as care homes went—he’d had enough experience in his job with council-run establishments that skirted the health-code criteria—but no amount of wood polish and fresh flowers could quite disguise the underlying odor of human incontinence and decay.
It was early for visitors, but he knew the residents were given their breakfast at what Great-aunt Margaret always called an uncivilized hour, and he also knew that Margaret would be most alert early in the day.
Although the matron, a large and obnoxiously cheerful woman, greeted him with even more than her usual bonhomie, he’d taken the precaution of slipping the whisky bottle into a shopping bag. The residents were not supposed to have alcohol on the premises, but he sidled past Matron with a smile and not the slightest twinge of guilt.
He found Margaret alone in the residents’ sitting room, her chair tucked in beside a gaudy artificial tree. In a bright red woolen suit, she looked like a present left behind by an absentminded Father Christmas. Her fine white hair had been styled into a wreath of curls, her nails varnished in the same cheery color as her suit.
“You look fetching,” Ronnie told her, bending to kiss her papery cheek.
“For all the good it does me.” Her voice was still strong, with the slight huskiness he suspected was due to the unfiltered cigarettes he remembered her smoking when he was a child. Her bones, however, had felt fragile as dried twigs when he’d rested his hand on her shoulder, and she looked frailer than the last time he’d seen her.
“Where are the other inmates, then?” he asked, pulling the nearest chair a bit closer to her. It was one of their standing jokes, and she smiled appreciatively.
“Off enduring their families for the day, most of them. Makes me glad I’ve only you to torment me.” She never said she liked his visits, or asked when he was coming again, but he suddenly guessed that the bright suit, the nail varnish, the freshly styled hair were all in his honor. She had looked forward to his coming, and he felt a rush of shame.
To cover his discomfort, he rustled in the bag and revealed the
bottle of whisky. “Thought you might want to keep this a secret from Matron,” he whispered.
“Too bloody right,” agreed Margaret. Taking the bag from him, she tucked it beside her in the wheelchair and gave him a conspiratorial smile as she covered it with the rug she kept over her knees.
“There should be some use for being crippled, I always say.
“Now,” she said, fixing him with a beady gaze, “tell me what you’re doing here at this ungodly hour on your holiday. Has that wife of yours mended her ways?” Margaret had never had anything good to say about Peggy, but at least now Babcock wasn’t obligated to defend his ex-wife.
“Afraid not, Auntie.”
“Lucky for you,” she sniffed. “So it will be work, then, unless your prompt appearance is just an excuse for avoiding our little Christmas feast.”
Babcock colored, knowing he would have made an excuse if one hadn’t presented itself. Murder scenes were one thing, but meal-times at the care home were beyond his powers of endurance.
His struggle must have been apparent, because she sighed and said, “It’s all right, boy. I can’t say I blame you, especially considering the state of Reggie Pargetter’s bowels these days. Why don’t you tell me about your
