Although one of the bow doors stood slightly ajar, there was no other obvious sign of disturbance to the boat. “It doesn’t look as though there was a struggle aboard, or a forced entry, so the killer may not have been on the boat at all. And we need a positive ID.
We’ll be careful.” Handing Kincaid the gloves and one set of shoe covers, Babcock fit the other set over his shoes.
After a moment’s hesitation, Kincaid followed suit. “You’re the boss, mate.”
The bow of the boat had drifted back to within a foot of the water’s edge, and Babcock wanted to take advantage of the proximity.
The hard border of the canal had been overgrown by turf, and as he knelt he immediately felt the sodden grass soak through the knees of his trousers. He leaned out, very much aware that if he fell headfirst
into the canal, he would not only be likely to freeze to death, but that if he survived, he’d never live it down. He’d be known as “arse- up Babcock” until they pensioned him off.
His fingers caught the slippery gunwale, and held, but his jubilation was brief as he felt the boat’s surprising resis tance. For a moment, he hung suspended, knowing that if the boat moved the other way he would go with it; then the fates smiled on him and the
One of the uniformed officers stepped forward and grabbed the gunwale so that Babcock was able to reach the rope that hung from the center fender, drifting in the water like a pale snake. The mooring pin that had once held the rope had left dark punctures in the grass, but there was no sign of the pin itself.
The uniformed constable slipped gloves from his pocket and took the rope from Babcock. “I’ll take it, sir, until you get aboard and see if there’s a spare pin.”
Babcock climbed over the gunwale and Kincaid followed, his longer legs giving him the advantage. They both stood still, checking for any sign of disturbance, but Babcock saw no footprints, no mud or blood. The purr of the generator, which he had noticed only peripherally before, was more audible, but still barely louder than a human hum.
Easily locating a spare mooring pin in the tidy well deck, he handed it across to the constable, instructing him, “Place it as far from the original mooring as possible.” Kincaid played out several feet of line from the bow stanchion and the officer moved back towards the stern, anchoring the pin well outside the trampled area around the original site.
“That should hold her, sir,” the constable called, “even if it does rub up the paintwork a bit.”
From this vantage point, Babcock could see faint light shining through the gap left by the open half of the cabin’s double doors. He
slipped on his gloves and, with a glance at Kincaid, pulled the door wide and stepped down into the salon.
“Holy shit.” He stopped so suddenly that Kincaid bumped him from behind.
“My sentiments exactly, when I came aboard before,” Kincaid said as Babcock moved aside to make room for him. Although the words were light, Babcock could hear the strain in his voice. He felt it, too, the overwhelming sense of a life interrupted.
Although the fire in the woodstove had gone cold, the radiators still pumped out heat; the lights still shone. A book lay open on an end table beside a half-empty mug of tea. A heavy insulated jacket hung on a hook set into the paneling near the bow doors.
“I’d never have expected a social worker—especially a retired social worker—to have this kind of money,” Babcock said, still ap-praising the luxurious fittings. Put together with the pristine condition of the boat’s exterior and expensively quiet generator, it shouted
“no expense spared.”
“Social worker?” Kincaid was obviously surprised. “She was a social worker? And you knew her?”
“I worked some cases with her. But then I heard she’d retired—
oh, five, six years ago. Dropped off the map. Can’t say I blamed her, after the last case we dealt with together.”
“Rough?” Kincaid asked.
“She’d placed a child in foster care. The parents were drug users, couldn’t stay clean. You know the story. Then the foster father killed the kid. I think she blamed herself, but it was the system.”
Babcock shrugged. “Sometimes you just can’t get it right.”
Kincaid repeated his earlier question. “What did you mean about her name. Was it not Lebow?”
“You’re a per sis tent bastard.” Babcock attempted a smile. “When I knew her, her name was Constantine. I think her husband was a journalist, but I’m not sure. She never really talked about her private
life.” What he didn’t say was that he had been attracted to her. Not that she had given him any encouragement, or that he would have done anything about it if she had. Ironic, that he hadn’t known then that all those years of fidelity were a waste.
He felt another rush of queasiness as he tried to connect the body on the towpath with the woman he had known. Annie had engaged life with an intensity that was seldom comfortable, and sometimes painful, for herself as well as others, of that much he was certain.
“Was she divorced, then?” Kincaid asked, snapping Babcock back to the present.
“That could explain the name change, I suppose.”
Frowning, Kincaid said, “When you knew her, did you ever talk about James Hilton?”
Babcock gazed at him blankly, then realization dawned. “The name of the boat. Yes, we did. I’d no idea she’d remembered.” He shook his head, then scanned the cabin, forcing himself to focus.
“Has anything changed since you were aboard?” The spare contemporary design of the decor made the small space seem larger, and yet it was warmly comfortable. There were, however, no photographs.
Perhaps she had kept mementos and more personal items in the bedroom.
Kincaid shook his head. “There’s certainly no obvious sign of a struggle or an intruder. I’d guess she was interrupted sometime last night—otherwise she’d have washed up.” He gestured at the mug.
“She didn’t strike me as the type to leave things untidy.”
“No.” Babcock walked into the streamlined galley. “There’s no sign of a meal, so either she cleaned up before she sat down with her tea, or she hadn’t yet eaten.” He checked the cupboards and the fridge, finding a few basic supplies, and a generous stock of both red and white wine. “She liked her tipple,” he said, examining labels.
“And she went to some trouble to get it. This is not the plonk you’d find at your local marina.”
“A connoisseur? Or a comfort drinker?” Kincaid mused.
There was no television, Babcock realized. He thought of her, cocooned on her boat in the long winter evenings, and he could imagine that a glass of wine could easily have turned into three or four. “Why such an isolated mooring?” he asked as he moved into the passageway that led towards the stern. “You said she was up above Barbridge when you met her? If she’d stayed . . .”
“You’re thinking wrong place, wrong time?” Kincaid shook his head. “With no sign of burglary or vandalism, or of sexual assault, a random killing seems unlikely. And even up on the Middlewich, there wasn’t another boat moored in sight.”
“So if someone had been stalking her, it wouldn’t have made a difference?”
“It’s early days yet, to make assumptions one way or the other.”
Agreeing, Babcock continued on into the stateroom. It was as neat as the salon, and gave away as little about its occupant. The only photos were black-and-white reproductions of old canal boats.
The built-in bed was made, the storage units closed, and there was no sign of personal papers or an address diary. The bedside table held only a book, an alarm clock, and an empty phone cradle. He was about to call out when Kincaid’s voice came from the salon.
“There’s a mobile phone on the floor, under her chair.”
Returning to the salon, Babcock found Kincaid rising from his knees. He had left the phone in place, and almost immediately Babcock spied its silver gleam a foot back from the chair’s edge. Kneeling himself, he edged the phone out with the tip of a gloved finger.
“It’s closed, so it’s unlikely she dropped it in mid-call.”
“She might have set it in the chair and forgotten about it when she stood up,” Kincaid offered.
Babcock flipped open the phone and checked the last number dialed. The display read “Roger,” and the number was a Cheshire exchange.
