He gave Dutton a few minutes to get settled so as not to give the
impression he’d been waiting to pounce. He wanted the man relaxed, at least in the beginning.
While he waited, he popped knuckles stiffening from the cold and ran over the conversation he’d had with Duncan Kincaid the night before. It was a tricky situation. Not only had Kincaid told him about his sister’s suspicions against her wishes, but Babcock didn’t know Juliet Newcombe well enough to judge her credibility. For all he knew, she might have made the entire business up to satisfy a personal grudge.
When the office blinds snapped open, Babcock took it as his cue and, prizing himself off the bench, crossed Churchyardside to the office, at the end of Monk’s Lane. A bell chimed gently as Babcock pushed open the door and stepped into the reception area. Piers Dutton came out of an inner office, looking surprised to see him, but not alarmed.
“You’re the early bird, Chief Inspector,” he said genially. “What can I do for you?”
“Just a quick word, Mr. Dutton, if you don’t mind.”
“No further along, are you, in finding the elusive Smiths?” Dutton asked as he waved Babcock towards the room from which he’d appeared. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Yes, thanks.” Babcock, never a morning person himself, had not expected such cordiality from Dutton. He wasn’t about to refuse what he suspected would be good coffee, however, especially as he was half frozen.
Following Dutton, he looked round the man’s private office with interest. He’d been right about the coffeemaker. A sleek German contraption that looked as if it might run on rocket fuel took center stage on the credenza against the back wall, and the smell emanating from it was enough to make Babcock light-headed.
The rest of the furnishings matched the credenza, never a look that appealed to Babcock personally, but the patina of the wood and the thickness of the carpet beneath his feet shouted money, as he
supposed it was meant to do. The maize-colored wall behind Dutton’s desk held a single painting, an ornately framed study of a bay horse and spaniel in the style of George Stubbs. But the more Babcock studied the jewel- like depth of the colors and the exquisite execution of the brushwork, the more he began to wonder if it actually
“There you are, Chief Inspector.” Dutton handed him a coffee, in a bone-china cup and saucer, no less, and looked at him quizzically.
“Just admiring your painting, sir,” said Babcock, going for the country-bumpkin air. “Reminds me of a picture I saw once in London, at the Tate. By George Stubbs, I think it was.”
Dutton turned to gaze at the painting, but didn’t quite manage to hide the flicker of pleasure that crossed his face. “Very astute of you, Chief Inspector. It
Babcock rather doubted that, as Dutton’s back would be to the painting as he sat at his desk, just as he doubted the painting was a family heirloom, but he looked suitably impressed. “Not worried about theft, then, sir?” he asked, eyeing the office window, which looked directly out onto the parking area and, beyond that, the town square.
“Our security’s quite good,” said Dutton. “And I don’t bandy the painting’s provenance about. Very few people are aware of its value.”
He eyed Babcock curiously, and while Babcock felt he might have erred in displaying interest in the painting, he found it telling that Dutton hadn’t been able to resist bragging about his possession.
Dutton poured his own coffee, then seated himself in one of the two visitors’ chairs, motioning Babcock to take the other one. It was a gesture designed to make Babcock feel comfortable, one Babcock imagined Dutton used when he was working a client up to an agreement, and he wondered why the man had changed his tactic after the subtle condescension he’d displayed during their first interview. It
could be that the mention of the painting had made Dutton feel he deserved to be treated as a social equal —a thought that made Babcock want to grind his teeth—or it could be that Dutton was nervous about something. Babcock’s curiosity rose another notch.
“Actually, Mr. Dutton, it’s not the Smiths I’ve come about,” he said. Having sipped the coffee, and found it as good as it smelled, he balanced the delicate cup on his knee. “Do I take it you haven’t heard about yesterday’s murder?”
“Murder?” Dutton gazed at him blankly.
“A woman named Annie Lebow was found murdered beside her narrowboat, quite near your house, in fact.” When Dutton still registered nothing but puzzlement, Babcock added, “I believe you might have known her as Annie Constantine. She was one of your clients.”
“What?” Dutton’s eyes widened, and Babcock could have sworn he saw real shock, quickly camouflaged, in the slackening muscles of the man’s face. “Of course I know Annie Constantine,” Dutton said slowly. “Don’t know why she started calling herself Lebow, when she and her husband aren’t even divorced.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what he’d heard. “Dead, you say?”
“Can you account for your movements night before last, Mr.
Dutton?” asked Babcock, tiring of the man’s baffled-squire act when he felt quite sure there was lightning calculation going on behind the blue eyes.
“My movements? Why on earth would you need to know that?”
Although he sounded incensed, Dutton’s china rattled in his hand.
He leaned forward to set the cup and saucer on the edge of his desk, sloshing coffee as he did so.
“Routine inquiries,” Babcock said, knowing it would irritate Dutton. “But I’m sure you want to cooperate in any way you can.”
“Of course,” Dutton agreed heartily. “But I hadn’t met with Annie Constantine for at least a year, so I don’t quite see—”
“Were you at home the night before last, Mr. Dutton?”
“I— No, actually, I met friends for dinner, at the Swan in Tarporley. We finished about half past ten, and I drove home. The fog was drawing in, so I thought it best to get off the road before the visibility worsened.” Now Dutton was volunteering information, an indication that he was definitely off balance. “Especially as I’d had one or two glasses of wine over the limit,” he added, imparting the confi dence with a slight twinkle, one sophisticated man to another.
Babcock didn’t return the smile. “And when you arrived home, can anyone vouch for your movements? Your son, perhaps?”
Dutton’s careful bonhomie vanished instantly. Blanching, he said furiously, “I won’t have you grilling my son, Chief Inspector. I can’t think why you believe any of this is necessary—”
“The victim has considerable money invested with your fi rm, I believe?”
Reaching for his coffee again, Dutton seemed to make an effort to recover some of his assurance, but Babcock caught the sudden scent of his expensive aftershave, mixed with sweat. “Since when is that a crime,” Dutton said with forced lightness, “or anyone else’s business?”
“When we’ve received information indicating that you might have been defrauding some of your clients, Mr. Dutton. If you were stealing from Ms. Constantine and she found out, that would certainly give you a motive. It appears you had opportunity, and the means were easy enough to hand.”
Dutton gave an unexpected bark of laughter. “So that’s your theory, Chief Inspector? And your source would be Juliet Newcombe, I take it?” He shook his head, a fond uncle expressing disappointment. “I expected better of you. Look, I’ve tried to be discreet about this whole business, for Caspar’s sake, but you must know that the woman is seriously unbalanced. She developed a sort of unhealthy . . . obsession . . . with me.” He looked away, as if embarrassed by the admission. “When I didn’t respond, she began to retaliate. She . . . imagined things. That’s why I encouraged her to
leave the office, to set up on her own. I put clients her way. I tried to protect my partner as best I could, but in the end, I had to tell him what was going on.”
It was slick, it was plausible, it was recounted with just the right degree of reluctance, and Babcock found that he didn’t believe a word. For the first time, he felt certain that Juliet Newcombe had been telling the truth and that Dutton had manufactured her infatu-ation with him as a shield. Had her husband actually believed him?
But if Juliet Newcombe had held such dangerous knowledge, why wasn’t she dead, rather than Annie Constantine? Was it because Dutton hadn’t been sure what Juliet knew? Or because he guessed her loyalty to her husband would keep her quiet?
