what she was going to say.
Perhaps she should have spoken to Juliet first, tried to convince her to share what she’d learned about Newcombe and Dutton with Duncan.
As Kincaid returned to the table, carrying a pint for himself and lemonade for her, she took a breath and began. “There are some things you need to know about your sister.”
“You bastard! You can’t mean it.” Juliet rose from the sofa and backed away from Kincaid as if he’d struck her.
“Jules, see reason, will you? And keep your voice down.” As soon as he and Gemma had reached the house, he’d maneuvered his sister as unobtrusively as he could manage into the unoccupied sitting room, but if she was going to shout at him, the whole family would be trooping in to see what was wrong. Not that he’d mind an audience, except for the children’s sake, but he had no doubt that she would.
“Reason?” Juliet had come up against the other chesterfield, but showed no inclination to sink into its cracked leather depths. “The only reason I can see is that I should never have told Gemma, and she should never have told you. How could you possibly think I’d agree to implicate my husband in a murder inquiry?”
“You’d not be implicating Caspar in anything. It’s his partner who’s done the fiddling, according to what you told Gemma,” he countered, trying to keep his patience. Although Gemma had warned him Juliet would react this way, he hadn’t been prepared for her fragility, or for the edge of hysteria in her voice. He went on quietly, trying to stay reasonable himself. “Look, Jules. You’ve said you’ve seen proof that Piers Dutton was skimming money from his investors’ accounts. If Annie Lebow was Piers’s client, and if she somehow found out he was cheating her, he’d have had a bang- up motive for killing her. You can’t—”
“I don’t care. I won’t help you ruin Caspar’s business for some pie- in- the- sky idea of yours—”
“You don’t care?” Standing, he crossed to the hearth and stabbed at the cold grate with the poker. “How can you say you don’t care that this woman was murdered? You didn’t meet her. You didn’t see her body lying on the towpath this morning, or see Kit’s face after he found her.”
For the first time, Juliet looked ashamed, but she didn’t relax her stance. “That’s not fair. That’s not what I meant and you know it.
You always twist things. But I won’t have the children jeopardized.
Have you thought what it would mean for Sam and Lally if their
father’s business and reputation were ruined? They’re your niece and nephew, for God’s sake, or had you forgotten?”
The fairy lights on the Christmas tree in the corner twinkled, but the room was as cold as the fire, and Kincaid remembered, suddenly, the bitter arguments he and his sister had had in this room over long-ago differences. “Of course I hadn’t forgotten,” he said, tasting the ashes of one more unresolved quarrel. “But those things might not happen, and even if they did, they’re not insurmountable. You can recover from a financial crisis, from a damaged reputation—even from a failed marriage—and the children can deal with more than you think. But nothing can give Annie Lebow’s life back to her, and I won’t let go any opportunity to find her killer.”
They stared at each other, deadlocked, and after a moment Juliet’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re a self- righteous shit, Duncan.
You always were. You can say what you want, but I’ll deny I found anything.”
“It doesn’t matter. Ronnie Babcock can get a warrant to search Newcombe and Dutton’s files on the basis of the connection between the firm and the victim. All he needs is a nod in the right direction. And he’ll be interviewing Piers and Caspar, regardless.”
Juliet shook her head, once, and wrapped her arms tightly around her thin body, as if the cold had seeped into her bones. “Don’t think I’ll forgive you for this.”
He sighed, his anger evaporating. “I’m sorry, Jules, but I haven’t a choice. Now will you make the call, or shall I?”
There was something in the quality of silence that told Caspar the moment he opened the door that the house was empty. He stood for a moment in the foyer, listening, trying to define the difference. Had the mere physical presence of the children in their rooms, of Juliet working on her accounts at the kitchen table, created a resonance he had never noticed?
It wasn’t that he’d really expected his family to have come home, he told himself as he hung his coat carefully in the cupboard, it was just that the habit of having them there was so ingrained in his mind that it took a conscious effort to refute it.
Even though he’d already had a few drinks at the Bowling Green with Piers, he went into his study and poured himself a good finger of Cardhu single malt. It was a whisky he hadn’t tried before, recommended by Piers, and he’d treated himself to a bottle partly because he knew the expense would annoy Juliet—just as his retreating to his study to have a drink as soon as he got home had annoyed Juliet.
Now he stood, irresolute, unable to decide whether to sit at his desk, although he really had no pressing work to do, or to wander into the kitchen or sitting room. He could turn on the telly, after all, without being sniped at by the children for interrupting one of their programs, or nagged to help them with their schoolwork. He could make himself cheese on toast for supper, if he chose, and leave the washing up for tomorrow, or even the next day, without Juliet giving him the evil eye and an exasperated sigh.
But there didn’t seem much point in doing any of those things if there was no one to object, and he felt suddenly, frighteningly hollow, as if his insides had been scooped out like the pulp of a ripe melon.
Afraid his legs wouldn’t support him, he groped for the arm of his chair, and after lowering himself carefully into it, topped up his glass with another inch of Cardhu.
The neat whisky seared his throat and warmed his gut, and after a few sips he began to feel more substantial. The house wouldn’t be empty for long. Piers had warned him over their drinks that if Juliet was determined to split up, then he must get custody of the children, and that her financial status should be enough to convince a court that he was the more responsible parent. Caspar had agreed, adding that he’d see her stripped of every penny, but only now did he begin to wonder what he would do with the children if he had them. Juliet
had managed and organized and seen to all their needs, and for just an instant his own ignorance terrified him.
Then he shrugged and knocked back the remainder of his drink.
Lally and Sam were old enough; they could manage without such coddling. What was important was that Juliet be made to see the error of her ways, and to pay.
A small bloom of satisfaction began to replace the emptiness in his gut. He had been right to listen to Piers. Piers had seen Juliet for the manipulative bitch she was when Caspar had still been duped, and it was Piers who had kept him from following blindly while she made a mockery of him.
And it was Piers who had had the good grace not to say “I told you so,” but had smiled with the sort of sympathy only another man could offer, and had promised him that together they would work everything out.
Chapter Twenty-two
Babcock reached Nantwich town center at half past eight the next morning to find the premises of Newcombe and Dutton still locked, blinds closed. He strolled across to the churchyard, taking up a position on a bench that would allow him to keep an unobtrusive eye on the firm’s door. The morning was gray, the remnants of the previous night’s fog still hovering round the rooftops and the massive square of the church tower, and it wasn’t long before the chill of the bench slats worked its way through his overcoat. He’d begun to contemplate the advisability of adding a pound or two of padding to his backside when a shiny new Land Rover (both adjectives oxymorons when combined with Land Rover, in Babcock’s opinion) pulled into the firm’s parking area and Piers Dutton climbed unhurriedly out.
Babcock found it interesting that it was Dutton who’d arrived first to open the office, when Caspar Newcombe lived just a short walk away. But perhaps investment advisors, unlike police officers, relaxed their schedules during Christmas week. The development suited him well enough, however, as he wanted to interview Dutton on his own.
