kitchen clock said straight- up eight, a time when he would normally be coming into the office himself, but a third night spent shivering on the sofa had not started his day well.
“Control hasn’t rung you?”
His attention sharpened. “No. What’s happened?”
“Body on the canal, boss. A woman.”
Babcock’s thoughts went back to his conversation with Kincaid
the previous day, and their speculation over the fate of the baby’s mother. “Buried?”
“No, sir. Lying on the canal path. It looks like someone bashed her over the head with a mooring pin. The boy who found the body identified her as a narrowboat own er named Annie Lebow. But oddly enough, it’s not far from the barn where we found the infant.
A bit closer to Barbridge, from what I understand.”
“Access?” he snapped, his mind turning to logistics even as he absorbed the shock.
“The constable says we’ll have to come in from Barbridge. I’m almost to Nantwich, boss. Shall I—”
“No, thanks. I’ll drive myself.” Babcock had ridden with Larkin before and decided it was an experience to be avoided at all costs.
She drove her Volkswagen as if she were trying to break a record at Le Mans. If anyone was going to subvert the speed laws, he’d prefer to do it himself in the BMW. “What about Rasansky?”
“Hasn’t come in yet.” Larkin couldn’t quite conceal her satisfaction.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll ring him from the car. See you at the scene,”
he added and rang off. After a moment’s reflection, he decided to take the time to change. There was no point in tramping the towpath in a Hugo Boss suit.
Less than a half hour later, clad more suitably in jeans, boots, and a fleece- lined leather coat, he swung the black BMW into the main street at Barbridge and slowed to a crawl as he looked for a place to park. Both sides of the road, as well as the lay-by near the humpbacked bridge, were filled with panda cars and already-flocking onlookers. He spotted Larkin’s green Jetta, pulled rakishly half onto a resident’s lawn, but drove past and found a spot behind the pub.
It was at least shaping up to be a halfway decent day, he thought as he locked the car and walked back along the road, if the weak sun held out. There weren’t many things worse than trying to do a crime-scene recovery in the rain.
The pub was still locked and shuttered, with the abandoned look that such establishments seem to acquire even when closed for only a few hours. The same could not be said, however, for the houses that surrounded the inn. The occupants stood on porches and postage-stamp lawns, many still in dressing gowns and slippers, watching the police activity with avid interest.
No doubt at least one of these concerned neighbors had rung the media—the vultures would be arriving soon. Babcock stopped to speak to the constable barring access to the pub’s play area and the bridge that crossed to the towpath, instructing him to have a patrol car block the top of the lane at the turnoff from the main road. The lane’s bottom end, fortunately, dead-ended in a hollow fifty yards or so past the pub. From there one could climb a steep bank up to the section of towpath that ran between Barbridge and the Middlewich Junction.
Turning back, Babcock caught sight of Larkin coming across the bridge. She had her arm round the shoulders of a boy, who in turn held a shaggy brown terrier—it could have been a nice family snap-shot, thought Babcock, until he drew near enough to get a good look at the boy’s face. He was a good- looking kid, maybe twelve or thirteen, slender and almost as tall as Larkin, with rumpled fair hair. But his skin had the almost translucent pallor of shock, and his pupils were so dilated that Babcock couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. Something about the boy tugged at the recesses of Babcock’s mind.
“Boss, this is Kit McClellan. He found the vic—deceased,” said Larkin.
Babcock saw that the boy’s teeth were chattering. “Sheila, you have an emergency blanket in your car?”
“I’ll get it.” As she left them, Babcock noticed that she had for once dressed appropriately for the weather, in trousers and boots, but he found he had rather been looking forward to the sight of Larkin climbing over a stile in one of her short skirts.
“We’ll soon get you warm,” he said to the boy, resisting the urge to put an arm round the kid’s shoulders. He was not one for cuddling children, or witnesses, although he tried to be gentle. And patient, although that was harder. Just now, he itched to get a look at the body on the towpath, but he knew it would wait, and that his first task was to help this boy recall anything of importance. He touched Kit’s shoulder lightly, guiding him down the bridge and onto the grass area near the playground.
“Do you need a lead for your dog?” he asked as Larkin returned with a tiny silver square of insulated blanket. She unfolded the material and draped it like a cape round the boy, who was then forced to free one hand from the dog’s coat in order to clutch the fabric together.
“No—I— She’ll be fine.” The boy lowered the dog to the grass, said, “Tess, down,” and gave her a hand signal. The terrier dropped, but kept her bright button eyes fixed anxiously on her master.
“So you were out walking your dog this morning?” Babcock asked, thinking it rather odd for a boy that age to be out so early voluntarily on a school holiday.
The boy nodded, pressing his lips together in an effort to control his still- chattering teeth.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” Babcock prompted gently, and caught a surprised glance from Larkin. Did she think him incapable of interrogating a traumatized kid? “I’m Detective Superintendent Babcock, by the way.”
“I saw the boat,” the boy said. “I recognized her right off—the
“There was a farmhouse in the distance, but it was on the other side of the canal and I wasn’t sure how to get to it, so I ran back here.
The pub was shut, so I knocked on that lady’s door.” He pointed at a large woman watching them from across the street, a coat thrown over her pajamas, and still wearing pink fuzzy slippers. “I asked her to call the police. When the constable came, I went back with him.”
It seemed even kids watched all the crime shows on the telly these days, thought Babcock, surprised at the boy’s easy use of the phrase
“contaminate the scene.” But he had done exactly right, and deserved to be told so. “Good lad. Did you see anything else? Anyone walking along the towpath?”
The boy shook his head.
“The deceased lady—you said you recognized her? Did you know her well?”
“No. My dad and I met her the day before yesterday, when we were out walking. She was . . .” He swallowed again and blinked back tears. Babcock looked away, waiting until the boy went on, with only a slight tremble in his voice. “She was nice. She invited us aboard for tea, and she said if we came back, she’d show me how to drive the boat.” The little terrier whined, sensing the distress in her master’s voice, and inched forward on her belly. The boy knelt to stroke her and looked up at Babcock through a lock of fair hair.
“Can I call my dad now? They’ll be worried about me—I only left a note saying I’d taken Tess for a walk, and that was ages ago.”
“Where do your parents live?” Babcock asked, wondering if the father could provide more information on the victim.
“London. We live in London. We’re only visiting my grandparents for the holiday. I tried ringing from that lady’s house, but I couldn’t remember the phone number, and my dad didn’t answer his mobile.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here for a bit longer,” Babcock told him. He’d want to have another word once he’d seen the victim, and they’d need an offi cial statement from the boy. “But we’ll ring your family, and your dad can come along and wait with you. What are your grandparents’ names?”
“Hugh and Rosemary Kincaid.” The boy said this with a kind of careful formality, as if it were new to him.
The resemblance that had nagged Babcock all through the conversation clicked into sharp focus. “Good God,” he said, as realization dawned. “You’re Duncan’s son.”
Gemma saw Kincaid glance at his watch just as she looked up at the kitchen clock. They’d finished an
