“Ex-husband?” Kincaid asked, reading over his shoulder.
“I think so.” He flipped through the phone’s directory; there were
no other numbers listed. Taking out his own mobile, he rang control and asked for a reverse look-up on the number.
“Roger Constantine,” he informed Kincaid with satisfaction when he’d thanked the dispatcher and rung off. “An address in Tilston, near Malpas.” That was the southwest corner of the county, equidistant from both the Shropshire and the Welsh borders.
“As good a place as any to start. Why don’t—” Kincaid stopped, and Babcock wasn’t sure if it was because he’d realized he wasn’t the one giving the orders or if he’d heard the raised voices from the canal side.
“Sounds like we’ve got company,” Babcock said, giving himself time to consider. He wouldn’t mind having Kincaid’s input, since he had met Annie Constantine so much more recently. And that would allow him to leave Larkin in charge of the scene here. “But you’re right,” he continued, “visiting Roger Constantine would be the obvious place to start, once I’ve organized the house- to- house—or maybe I should say boat- to- boat. I take it you’d like to tag along?”
“Boss.” It was Larkin, calling from the bank. “The doc’s here.”
Babcock left the phone for the SOCOs to dissect, making a mental note to tell Travis exactly where they’d found it, then headed for the bow deck, followed by Kincaid.
By the time they reached solid ground, Dr. Elsworthy was already examining the body, her back to them. She had perfected the art of balancing in a fl at- footed squat. She wore heavy trousers and a shapeless coat, and a few strands of gray hair had escaped from beneath her woolly gray hat. To the uninitiated, she might be mistaken for a bag lady searching for useful castoffs.
Kincaid, however, seemed unsurprised, and a hush fell over the group as they waited for her to finish.
When Dr. Elsworthy rose at last, her movements seemed slower than usual, and she held her knees for a moment as if they pained her. She turned, stripping off her latex gloves with a snap, and fixed Babcock with a glare. “As you may have gathered, the victim was
struck on the back right-hand side of the head with a hard object, possibly your missing mooring pin. The external shape of the wound is compatible.
“Lividity is fixed, and rigor is fairly well established although not complete. I think you can assume death probably occurred sometime between six P.M. and midnight yesterday.” Anticipating Babcock’s groan, she pointed a finger at him. “You know the mitigating factors as well as I do, Chief Inspector. A night exposed to the elements would have retarded rigor, as would an unanticipated attack.
There are no obvious defense wounds or signs of a struggle, nor indications of sexual interference.”
As much as it galled him, Babcock knew she was right. If a victim fought his attacker, or ran just before death, the expenditure of ATP
in the muscles could bring on almost immediate rigor, while the opposite was true as well. In a victim struck from behind, rigor might be delayed for several hours. There was another factor as well, one that Babcock didn’t want to consider, but knew he must.
“Doc, was death instantaneous?”
“That I can’t tell you, Ronnie, although I may be able to say more once I get her on the table.” Elsworthy sighed and seemed to shrink a little inside her oversize coat. For the first time in Babcock’s memory, she seemed human, and suddenly vulnerable. “I can tell you that the position of the body isn’t natural—she didn’t fall that way after the blow.”
Babcock imagined Annie Constantine, snug in her salon, suddenly feeling the boat drift from the bow. She’d have set down her drink and gone up top, leaving behind her heavy coat. Had she seen that the mooring rope was loose, and perhaps thought her knot had not held?
She would have used a pole to push the boat back to the bank, then climbed ashore. Bending to retie the line, she would have seen that the mooring pin itself had gone.
But someone had been waiting, perhaps crouched in the shadow of the hedgerow. Had her assailant sprung out, hit her once, twice,
running away as she struggled up and fell again before losing consciousness?
Or had he waited long enough to make sure his blow had done its work, then lifted or dragged her a few feet, to leave her lying as if she had simply fallen asleep?
Beside him, Kincaid spoke quietly, echoing his thoughts. “Why would he—or she—have moved the body? And was she still alive when he did?”
When Gemma had tucked Kit and Tess into the passenger seat of the Escort, she went round to the driver’s side and started the car. The engine was still warm, and toasty air blasted from the heater vents.
Kit let her fold the blanket she’d retrieved around him without protest, and in a few moments, he had stopped shivering.
“That’s better,” said Gemma, smiling at him as she warmed her fingers in the airflow.
“You’ll use up all your petrol,” Kit protested, but without much conviction.
“Better than you catching pneumonia. Or Tess.”
“Dogs don’t catch pneumonia,” Kit retorted with returning spirit, but then his voice wavered and he added, “Do they?” He pulled Tess a little more firmly into his lap.
“I’m sure they don’t,” said Gemma, who wasn’t sure at all, having never owned a dog before Tess and Geordie. “She has a fur coat, after all. Remember how much she loves going out in the garden at home when it’s cold?”
Some of the anxious lines in Kit’s face relaxed. “She’d watch squirrels in an arctic blizzard.”
“And she’s never been any the worse for it, so I’m sure she’s fine, now.” Indeed, the little dog had closed her eyes, and began to snore very gently.
Gemma chose her next words carefully. She didn’t want to dam-
age the rapport they’d established, but something had been nagging at her ever since they’d found Kit’s note. “You and Tess were out awfully early this morning,” she said, without looking at him. “Did the little boys wake you?”
“No. They were still asleep. It was just that I . . . I had a bad dream.” She heard the effort it took him to keep his voice as casual as hers.
For a moment, she watched the wind move the tops of the evergreens beyond the bridge. Then she asked, “Do you want to talk about it? ”
“No!” The response had burst from him. “I mean . . . I don’t really remember,” he added after a moment, moderating his reply.
Gemma didn’t press him, but she wasn’t sure if her reluctance was due to sensitivity, or the fact that she was afraid to imagine what Kit’s nightmares might hold.
Movement in her rearview mirror caught her eye. She watched as a moss-green Morris Minor inched past her in the lay-by, and blinked in surprise as baleful eyes peered back at her from a mam-moth gray head resting on the rear seat back. Then the head disappeared as the Morris Minor stopped some yards ahead in a spot kept clear by the uniformed constable, and a figure climbed from the driver’s seat. At first Gemma thought it was a rather shabbily dressed man, but a few gray curls peeked from beneath a woolen hat, and she saw a flash of a profile that was definitely feminine.
The removal of a black medical bag and the hurried conference with the constable narrowed the identification further. This must be the pathologist. Nothing emerged from the rear of the car, however, and Gemma wondered if she had imagined the beast.
She turned to Kit for confirmation, but his eyes were downcast, and he was stroking Tess’s head with a studied concentration.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Gemma said gently. If he needed to talk about what had happened, she would give him the opportunity.
He nodded, but didn’t speak, and Gemma waited with the hard-
won patience her job had taught her. At last, Kit’s hand fell still and he glanced at her, then away.
“She was all right yesterday,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“If I hadn’t— If I’d stayed—I might have stopped it somehow—”
Gemma’s breath caught in surprise. “You saw her yesterday?”
