Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 11 - Water Like A Stone

She recognized the share issuer, a German high- tech company that Caspar recommended to his own clients, but something didn’t seem quite right. She checked the corresponding record of payment again, and frowned. Quickly, she switched on Piers’s calculator and entered the amount in euros, then figured the exchange into pounds sterling. “Bloody hell,” she whispered. The amount paid to the client was off by a good percent.

She pulled another statement from the loose pages and ran the figures again, with the same results. Chewing her lip in concentration, she carefully gathered up the pages and returned that client’s folder to the file drawer. Randomly, she selected another, with similar investments, and did the calculations once more.

“You sodding bastard,” she said, this time making no effort to keep her voice down. It was so blindingly simple. Most of Piers’s clients were well-off, with multiple investments in both shares and unit trusts. Would any of them bother to match each income check against the exchange rate? Piers had been skimming a cool percent of his clients’ earnings, and now she had found the proof.

Chapter Eleven

At first the darkness at the water’s edge seemed absolute. The sky had filled with mottled clouds, their edges livid with the light of an obscured sickle moon, and little illumination filtered through the overhanging trees.

As his eyes began to adjust, however, he could make out a few gleaming patches of the previous night’s snow, blotched like alien fungi on the soft belly of the towpath.

Carefully, he stepped forward until he could see down into the canal itself. There was no wind and no reflection; he might have been staring into an inky, bottomless void. The sensation was oddly exhilarating, like a glimpse into another universe, and he felt a proprietary surge of pleasure. This was his secret place; he had power here, and the knowledge calmed him.

Things were happening that he hadn’t anticipated, and while he didn’t foresee any real danger, the loss of control made him edgy.

Reaching into his coat, he pulled the curved silver fl ask from his inside pocket and took a sip, then another. Alcohol, he’d learned, was a beautiful thing. Just enough would loosen him up, ease him into a transcendent state where time and action could be manipulated to

suit him. Flow, he thought of it, where the ideas that blossomed in his head melded perfectly with his emotions.

But he never drank too much. Deliberately, he replaced the flask’s cap and screwed it tight. He couldn’t afford to be muddled, not now, when he might have to make an unexpected decision. Nor did he want to lose an iota of the intensity of experience, or the clarity of memory. His recollections were kept like the pearls in his pocket, savored, caressed, treasured.

So he paced himself, with medicinal discipline. Only once had his control faltered, and that was because he hadn’t realized just how intoxicating murder could be.

Gemma watched Rosemary Kincaid fidget for half an hour after Duncan and Kit left for their walk. They’d quickly finished the washing up, and when Hugh had muttered something about splitting wood and slipped out through the scullery, Rosemary had murmured, “That’s his refuge when he’s worried, the woodshed.”

They sat at the kitchen table, nursing mugs of unwanted tea, while Toby still slept on the dog bed near the kitchen stove. He looked positively cherubic, his cheeks flushed and his straw-fair hair tousled, one arm thrown over the patient cocker spaniel’s back. The sheepdog and the terrier had moved aside, looking slightly affronted at the usurpation of their warm cushion.

“It’s a good thing he hasn’t an allergy to dog hair,” said Rosemary, watching him. “Aren’t they lovely when they sleep? When Duncan and Juliet were small, no matter how difficult they’d been or how tired I was, I would always go in and watch them for a few minutes after they fell asleep. It helped keep things in perspective. That was until they started locking their bedroom doors, of course,” she added wryly.

“And even then, you tell yourself that once they’re grown, your worries will be over.” She looked wan, and it seemed to Gemma that the lines bracketing her nose and mouth had deepened since morning.

“It’s not like Juliet, is it?” Gemma asked quietly. “Going off without telling anyone. Leaving the children.” She hadn’t felt comfortable with Duncan’s dismissal of his sister’s unexplained disappearance, nor with his admonition to his parents to ignore it. Of course, she didn’t know Juliet as well as he did, but she seemed a responsible mother, and responsible mothers didn’t walk out on their children in the middle of Christmas dinner.

“No.” Rosemary gripped her mug until her knuckles blanched.

“But then I’d never have thought Caspar capable of the things I heard him say last night. And to think I found him charming, once. He was so earnest. I’m not quite sure when that earnestness turned to self-importance.”

The behavior Gemma had witnessed in Caspar Newcombe the previous night had been worse than self- important—it had been vicious. Remembering the near hysteria in Lally’s voice, she said carefully, “Rosemary, you don’t think Caspar would hurt the children?

Lally seemed awfully worried about her father’s reaction if he even learned she’d rung you.”

“Lally’s been a bit prone to dramatizing lately—I suppose it’s understandable.” Rosemary glanced up at Gemma, guilt in the eyes that were so like her son’s. “So at first I thought perhaps she was exaggerating things, looking for attention. But now . . . the thing is, when I spoke to Caspar, I could tell he was drinking. I don’t like the idea of him on his own with the children—not to mention the fact that if Caspar’s been drinking, you can bet his father has as well, and I hate to think of Ralph driving them home . . .” She stood and took her cup to the sink, then wiped at the already spotless worktop with a tea towel. With her back to Gemma, she said, “And Juliet—

Caspar was so angry, but cold with it, as if he’d been storing it up.”

Gemma glanced at Toby, still sleeping despite the rhythmic thunk of the wood splitter from behind the house, and came to a decision.

“How far is it to—what did you say the town was called? Audlem?”

“A half hour from Nantwich. A bit farther for us.”

“Look, why don’t you and Hugh go and get the children. Bring them here. You can leave Juliet a message saying what you’ve done, and I’ll stay here in case she rings. Caspar will let you take the children?”

Rosemary frowned. “I think so, yes. He won’t want to make a scene in front of his parents, especially after what’s already happened. But if Juliet goes home, and Caspar’s there without the children . . .”

“Has he ever hurt Juliet?” Gemma asked gently, trying to mask her own fear.

“I don’t think so. But then I assumed they’d just grown a little distant, that the children growing up and Juliet leaving the office were causing a temporary strain.”

“This partner—do you think there’s any truth to Caspar’s accusations? Could Juliet be having an affair with him?” Gemma had met the man briefly after midnight mass the night before. He’d stood with Caspar, oozing the sort of charm that made her instantly wary. She found it hard to imagine a woman as straightforward as Juliet Newcombe being tempted by such goods.

“I don’t know,” replied Rosemary, her tone bitter. “I’m not sure anymore that I know my daughter at all.”

It hadn’t taken much argument to convince Rosemary that she should fetch Sam and Lally from Caspar’s parents, but when she ended the call to Caspar, Gemma saw that her hands were shaking.

“He was vile,” she said, “but he didn’t disagree. In fact, he seemed eager to be shot of them.”

“No word from Juliet?” asked Gemma.

“No. I can’t think—”

“Don’t.” Impulsively, Gemma hugged her. “I’m sure she’s fi ne. I imagine she just needed some time on her own.”

Nodding against her shoulder, Rosemary said, “Thank you. I’m s

glad you’ve come.” Then she stepped back and began to gather her things briskly. Hugh came in, and when Rosemary explained the situation to him, he instantly agreed that they should go.

Jack the sheepdog watched, sensing an expedition afoot, and began to prance from mistress to master, tail