fingertips as he gazed out the window above the sink. It overlooked the side garden, a swath of green winter grass studded with the bare silhouettes of fruit trees.
In spring, when the trees were in bloom, it must be magnificent.
What could have moved Annie Lebow to give all this up for life on a seven- by-sixty-foot boat, no matter how well outfitted?
He returned to the table and touched Roger Constantine on the shoulder. Looking up, Constantine took the glass and drained it as thirstily as a parched wanderer in the desert.
“Thanks,” Constantine said hoarsely as he set the empty tumbler on the table, then rubbed the back of his hand across his tear-streaked cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—there’s tea if you want.”
“No, we’re fine.” Kincaid sat again, this time in the chair nearest Constantine, and took the liberty of stroking the dog’s thick coat.
“Mr. Constantine—Roger—do you mind if I call you Roger?” Without waiting for Constantine’s assent, he went on, “Roger, do you and your wife own this house jointly?”
Constantine looked a little surprised at the question, but not alarmed. “No. Actually, it’s Annie’s family home. She inherited the place when her parents died. Merchant pirates, she liked to call the Lebows. Her great-great- great-grandfather started with one ship out
of Liverpool, and had built this place as a weekend getaway in the country by the time he retired.”
“Quite an accomplishment.”
“Yes, but Annie was always a little ashamed of the family history. She felt their fortune was built on exploiting the poor. I think it’s one of the reasons she went into social work—as a sort of penance.”
That would explain a good bit, Kincaid thought, including the means for the early retirement and the fact that even her self-imposed exile had reflected the best money could buy. He wondered if she had seen the irony of it.
It also opened up a Pandora’s box of questions, and he saw Babcock sit up a bit straighter, suddenly alert with interest.
“Your wife owned this place in its entirety, and she was content to let you stay here like a lodger?” Babcock raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Yes. We were married, for God’s sake,” Constantine answered defensively. “I told you—”
“It’s a nice deal, you have to admit.” Babcock shook his head.
“My ex should have been half so generous. And who stands to inherit, if your wife was the last of her family?”
“I do, as far as I know.” Constantine stared at him, the color rising in his fair skin. “You’re not suggesting I killed my wife for this house! That’s obscene.”
The dog tensed at his master’s tone, its hackles rising, and began a low, steady growl, just above the threshold of hearing. Withdraw-ing his hand, Kincaid wished he hadn’t sat quite so close to the beast.
“It is a substantial property,” said Babcock, undaunted. “Worth a pretty penny on the market, if one were a bit short of the ready.
Did you carry life insurance on your wife, by the way?” he added conversationally.
After a moment, Constantine answered reluctantly. “Yes. We insured one another, years ago, when we were first married. It’s a small premium—I’ve never thought to change it.” He looked from Babcock to Kincaid, outrage turning to appeal. “Jesus Christ. You can’t think—”
“Mr. Constantine,” asked Babcock, “what did you do last night, after your wife rang you?”
For the first time Kincaid thought he glimpsed a flicker of terror in the man’s eyes. “Nothing,” Constantine said. “I mean, I was here, working on a piece.” He gestured at the books and papers covering the table. “I’m up against a deadline.”
Babcock’s smile held all the warmth of a shark bite. “Is there anyone who can verify that, Mr. Constantine, other than your dog?”
Chapter Eighteen
The tag end of the crime-scene tape rose and fl uttered, briefly animated by a gust of wind, then it dropped, hanging limply beside its anchoring stake as though exhausted by its effort. Gemma and Juliet Newcombe stood outside the tape’s boundary, surveying the ruin of Juliet’s building site.
A sea of muck stretched before them, the sodden ground pock-marked by the treads of heavy equipment and human boots. The prospect was as desolate as the moon, and a good bit messier. Figures in overalls came and went from the shell of the dairy barn, and the sporadic sounds of hammering and banging echoed like shotgun retorts in the cold air.
Juliet stared, her face stamped with dismay, then fury seemed to propel her into motion. She ducked under the tape and set off across the muck like a Valkyrie going to battle. Gemma, with a wince of regret for her London shoes, followed more carefully, wondering what she had got herself into.
Even though she’d urged Kincaid to go with Chief Inspector Babcock, she hadn’t been prepared for the frustration that had gripped her as she watched them drive away.
On returning to the farmhouse, it had been a relief when Rosemary and Hugh insisted on taking the children into the shop with them. Juliet had said quietly that she meant to get some things from her house, as she knew Caspar had an appointment out of Nantwich that morning. Juliet hadn’t asked for help, but her nervousness had been obvious, and when Gemma offered to accompany her, she accepted without argument.
First, however, Juliet had been determined to check on her building site, in hopes that the police would be finished and she could get her crew back to work. That that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon was all too obvious.
“Hey, you!” A beefy man wearing a police safety jacket thrown over his suit had spied Juliet. Breaking off his conference with one of the overalled men, he charged towards them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see this is restricted?”
“What the hell do you think
“This is my job site. What are you doing to my building?”
The man didn’t need the police jacket for identification—he had
“copper” written all over him, subtitled “copper in a bad temper over his assignment.” His face took on a deeper hue of puce. “Look, lady—”
“It’s not ‘lady,’ ” Gemma said icily, stepping forward. “It’s Mrs.
Newcombe. And I’m Detective Inspector James, Metropolitan Police.”
“Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen Mum,” he answered. “I’m not going to tell you two a—” He stopped, his mouth hanging open un-flatteringly midword, and the florid color drained from his face.
Gemma had pulled her identification from her bag and raised it to his eye level.
“Shit,” he said succinctly, then looked even more horrified.
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize—”
“What ever happened to community policing?” Gemma asked with
cutting sarcasm. “Where I come from, we generally try to establish a good relationship with the tax-paying public, as difficult as that may be.”
“I didn’t know—”
“I don’t care if you thought we were the local bag ladies.” A glance at Juliet’s anxious face reminded Gemma that, while she might be enjoying this little skirmish, it wasn’t doing anything to ease her companion’s mind. She summoned a smile. “Look. Sergeant, is it?” It was an educated guess, considering that Babcock had left him overseeing a less than glamorous job while the DCI hared off after a fresh murder, and his instant deferral to her rank made it unlikely he was an inspector himself.
“Rasansky, ma’am,” he answered, tight-lipped.
“Sergeant Rasansky, what
“No, ma’am. The DCI ordered a deconstruction crew. Waste of time, if you ask me.”
