said, forbearing to add his hope that Kincaid’s girlfriend had brought Mrs. Newcombe, as she’d promised. He wouldn’t mind another chat with the copper- haired Gemma James.
But when they reached the lobby, it was Kincaid himself who stood beside his sister.
Kincaid, in jeans and a scuffed leather bomber jacket, looked more relaxed than when Babcock had seen him on Christmas Eve, while Juliet Newcombe looked unhappy but less frantic.
When Babcock made introductions, Larkin widened her eyes at Kincaid and said, “Ooh, Scotland Yard! Nice to meet you, sir. If you ever need any help in this part of the world—” Babcock’s reproving
glare only made her grin unrepentantly as she turned back to him.
“You want me to take Mrs. Newcombe’s statement, boss?” she asked.
“Why don’t you take Mrs. Newcombe to the family room,” he suggested. That would allow Larkin to take care of the formalities, and he could take Kincaid to his own office for a natter. There was always a chance that Larkin, for all her cheekiness, would elicit something from Juliet Newcombe that he might not.
Turning to her brother with a distressed expression, Juliet said,
“But—I thought you’d be with me—”
Kincaid squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry. You just tell the constable exactly what happened the other night. It’s only for the record.”
“The coffee here is rubbish,” Babcock said when Larkin had led Juliet away, “but I keep a kettle and some tea bags in my office for special visitors. Care for a cuppa?”
“I’m flattered.” Kincaid followed him, and when they were settled in the two chairs on the visitors’ side of Babcock’s desk, dunking their tea bags in mismatched mugs, he looked round the cramped space.
“You’ve not done too badly for yourself, Ronnie,” he commented.
“Don’t condescend to me, mate,” said Babcock lightly. “You’ve probably got a suite overlooking the bloody Thames.”
Kincaid laughed and shook his head. “Not likely, although you can get a glimpse of the river from my guv’nor’s office if you stand on a chair.” He fished out his tea bag and lobbed it accurately into the bin. “So, any developments with the case?” he asked, settling back in his chair with his hands wrapped round his mug for the warmth.
“Bugger all,” Babcock told him with a grimace. He outlined the results of the pathologist’s report and the negative progress in other areas. “I don’t suppose you’ve any suggestions? Not that I’m officially asking for Scotland Yard’s assistance, of course.”
“Patience, my son?” Kincaid ventured, then held up a hand to ward off an imaginary blow. “No, seriously, I’d say you’re pretty well stymied until the neighbors come back from their holiday and businesses reopen. Have you put a notice in the local media?”
“There’ll be a story in this week’s
“Stranger things have happened,” Kincaid said. “But you might have someone contact you with the Smiths’ address. I remember them, you know, although I’m not sure I’d have recalled the name.
But the barn was still a working dairy when we were kids. Jules and I—”
“Jules?”
“Sorry, Juliet. Juliet and I used to roam the canal like little fi ends, not something you could let your kids do these days. We were chased off by more than one farmer and his dog, but not by the Smiths.
They seemed a kindly couple, and although I thought of them as being ancient, I suspect they were only middle-aged.”
“You were close, then, you and your sister?” Babcock asked.
Kincaid hesitated for a moment, then said, “There’s only three years’ difference in our ages and, especially when we were small, our life was fairly isolated, so we spent a good deal of time together. But even then, I’m not sure I really knew her.” He shrugged. “And I suppose it’s only natural that you grow apart as you get older.”
Babcock saw an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about Juliet Newcombe. “Is she all right, your sister? Yesterday, she seemed more upset than I’d have expected.”
“Um, she’s having some . . . domestic issues,” Kincaid answered after a moment’s hesitation.
“Anything to do with this baby?”
“No, of course not.” Kincaid seemed surprised by the question.
“Although I don’t think finding the thing did wonders for her emotional equilibrium.”
“Understandable.” Babcock grimaced at the memory of the desiccated little form, then turned his mug in his fingers while he considered how much to reveal. “I had a chat with your brother- in- law’s
partner last night. He’s a right tosser. And I got the distinct impression he has it in for your sister.”
“Has it in—”
“As in active ill will.” Babcock clarified. “As in making an opportunity to suggest she’s hysterical and not to be relied upon.”
“Why the hell—” Kincaid began, then stopped and sipped carefully at tea that was now tepid. Wariness had slipped over his face like a mask, and Babcock knew he wasn’t going to hear everything his friend knew. “Why would Piers Dutton want to undermine my sister?” Kincaid asked after a moment, his voice under control once more.
Frowning, Babcock mused aloud. “Dutton said he’d been in his house five years. But even if the child was buried before that, he could have known about the barn before he moved into the area.”
“You’re suggesting Dutton had something to do with this baby?
But then why would he recommend my sister for the renovation?”
“Well, say he knew the new own ers were determined to go ahead with the job. If he was sure the baby would be found, maybe he saw an opportunity to make life difficult for your sister.”
“Implicating himself in the process? That’s pretty farfetched,
don’t you think, Ronnie? And if he was responsible for the baby and he knew the renovation was inevitable, why not just remove the body?”
“Too risky?” Babcock suggested.
“There’s only one house between Dutton’s and the canal. All he’d need to do was pick a night when he knew his neighbors wouldn’t be home. It didn’t take Jules that long to chip out that mortar—Dutton could have done it in a few hours, then tossed the body in a ditch somewhere.”
Babcock sighed. “That’s a point. Tom Foster’s not exactly the Cerberus of South Cheshire.” Rubbing at his lower lip, he found a spot of stubble he’d missed that morning in his rush to shave in his s
arctic bathroom. He cast an envious glance at his old friend. Kincaid was one of those men who would look rakish with a day’s growth of beard, while he, with his battered face, would merely look like he’d spent the night in a skip. “Still, it’s worth checking,”
he continued. “Dutton was going through a divorce at the time.
Maybe he had an illegitimate child he didn’t want complicating things—”
“And the baby’s mother went along with the interment? Or maybe she’s buried somewhere, too? Ronnie, you’re building sand castles.”
Babcock countered with a grin. “Where’s your imagination, lad?
All those bureaucrats at the Yard drummed it out of you? For all we know, he’s walled her up in the cellar of his Victorian monstrosity.
Didn’t you read your Poe?”
“You’d better have a little firmer foundation than ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ before you apply for a warrant to start digging up Dutton’s house.”
“Okay, okay. Touche. But I think I’ll have Larkin do a little re-search into Dutton’s background.”
“Your detective constable?” Kincaid raised an amused eyebrow.
“Sharp girl. And I do believe she fancies you, you know.”
Babcock was momentarily rendered speechless. “You’re taking the piss. She’s cheeky with everyone, including you—and you’re happily attached, I take it. I met your . . . girlfriend?”
“So she said, although I think she’d prefer the term ‘partner.’
And you’re changing the subject.”
“Even if you were right—and I’m not saying you are—I have enough problems with my ex without getting involved with someone on the job. Although I have to admit, my options for meeting eligible women who’ll put up
