If that was the case, could Annie Constantine have found out something from Juliet that aroused her own suspicions? Was there a link between the two women that Juliet hadn’t revealed? And did any of this connect in some way with the infant buried in the barn, so near Piers Dutton’s property?
Dutton was watching him, as if assessing his reaction, so Babcock said sympathetically, “How very difficult for you. But I’m sure you can understand that we will have to audit the records of your transactions on Ms. Constantine’s behalf.”
“I understand nothing of the kind.” Dutton’s smile, which had never reached his eyes, disappeared entirely, and his tone could have frozen a hot geyser. “You have no right to my clients’ confidential fi les, Chief Inspector, and if you persist, I’ll have to bring in my attorney.”
Babcock finished his coffee with deliberation, enjoying the last drop, then reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded paper.
“Then you can show him this. It’s a warrant authorizing our fraud team to search your records. They should be here”—he glanced at his watch—“any moment now. If you don’t mind, I’ll just make myself at home until they arrive. And while we’re waiting,” he added, pulling a notebook from his pocket as well, “you could start by giving me the names of the friends you dined with in Tarporley.”
Althea found Gabriel Wain waiting for her in the lay-by across the canal from his boat. He stood like a brooding hawk, hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched, glancing from the boat to the lane and back again. Although he waited while she found a spot for her car at the bottom of the lay-by, he shifted his stance uneasily, his impatience seeming barely contained. Her heart constricted as she reached him. Had Rowan taken a turn for the worse?
But before she could ask, he spoke, the words spilling out as if he could no longer contain them. “The police have been. I said what you told me, that the Constantine woman had reversed into the
“Well, then, that’s—”
“No, no,” he broke in impatiently. “Later, a woman came while I was away gathering firewood. Police or bloody social worker, one or the other. I only saw her from a distance, but I can smell it, the nosiness, the do- gooding. She was talking to Marie, this woman, asking her questions. Then when she saw me coming, she left.”
“What did she ask, did Marie say?”
“Only that she was a ‘nice lady.’ I’ve told the girl time and again not to speak to strangers—”
“Leave her be, Gabriel,” said Althea, thinking furiously. “She’s just a child, and she’s not the issue here.” If the police were suspicious of Gabriel, wouldn’t Babcock have mentioned something when she’d spoken to him the previous afternoon?
Was it possible that Babcock had got wind of her involvement and had kept things from her deliberately? He had, after all, gone over her head to speak to the forensic anthropologist about the mummified infant.
What if Babcock had discovered Annie Lebow’s connection with Gabriel and his family? And if the police learned of the past
accusations against Rowan and Gabriel, would Social Services be far behind?
She met Gabriel’s eyes, saw the raw fear there, and knew her decision had made itself. For just an instant, a detached part of her mind wondered how she had got from a woman who’d spent her life refusing any commitments other than the care of her sister, to this reckless person who was willing to risk career and reputation to help people she hardly knew. But then she heard herself say, “Gabriel?” and the voice of reason vanished like a will- o’- the- wisp.
“Gabriel,” she repeated, more forcefully. “Listen. About the children. I think you should let them come with me for a bit.” She forestalled the protest she saw forming on his lips, all the while wondering how she would juggle her work at the hospital, how she would handle things at home. Should she call in and say she was ill?
Would the children be all right if she left them with Beatrice? Could she ask Paul for help?
“If the police come back, they might bring someone from Social Services,” she continued. “If the children weren’t here, at least we’d have a chance to forestall things. I’ve some connections—”
“But Rowan—she couldn’t bear to let them go. Every minute she has—” He stopped, eyes reddening, and looked back towards the boat. “How could I even . . .”
“I know,” Althea said, gently. “But what if they took the children away? I can’t imagine anything worse for Rowan than that. And if they come . . . if they should take you in for questioning, the children would see . . .”
“They’ve never spent a night away from this boat,” Gabriel protested fiercely. “They don’t know anything else.”
A wave of sadness swept over Althea. She reached out and touched his arm, a contact neither of them would have accepted even a few moments before. “Gabriel, things are going to change. Whatever happens, things are going to change.”
“You couldn’t have gone with him, you know,” Gemma told Kincaid quietly. They had arrived at Crewe Police station after breakfast to find Babcock already gone. “You’re too close; you know that. With Juliet involved, we’ll be lucky if the DCI doesn’t boot us out altogether.”
They moved to an unoccupied desk in the corner of the incident room, and she knew that the sense of the investigations fl owing around them must be as frustrating for Kincaid as it was for her. He took the swivel chair, the cracks in its faux-leather seat mended with packing tape. Scowling, he drummed his fingers on the sticky surface of the desk. She knew that he knew she was right, but she also knew that admitting it would make him even more irritable, so she let it drop.
The choleric Sergeant Rasansky had been out as well, and it had been DC Larkin who’d told them that Babcock had already gone to interview Piers Dutton, warrant in hand, with the fraud team scheduled to meet him there at a prearranged time. Impressed with his efficiency, Gemma had said, “He’s got skates on, your guv’nor.”
Larkin had shaken her head. “You’d not have wanted to cross him this morning. He was up half the night getting that warrant, and he’ll be paying back favors until doomsday. Piers Dutton has a lot of infl uence in this town.” She gave Kincaid a searching look. “I hope you’re right about this. The fraud lads won’t be happy if he’s given them a false lead, either.”
With that disapproving comment, she’d gone back to her desk and her reports, and although she gave them the occasional curious glance, she didn’t protest their presence. But a few moments later, a phone call took all her attention.
Gemma watched her, liking the young DC’s brisk manner, and when Larkin rang off, she navigated her way across the floor obstacles and perched on the edge of the constable’s desk. “Anything interesting?” she asked.
Larkin hesitated, then gave a slight shrug, apparently deciding that if they were in Babcock’s confidence she might as well share.
“That was Western Division. The constable who most often patrols Tilston knows Roger Constantine. Says he keeps to himself, but according to neighbors, he’s been seen occasionally having dinner in the pub with a younger woman.”
Kincaid had joined them in time to hear her summary. “That gives him motive in spades,” he said, looking distinctly more cheerful. “But we know Annie rang him at home that night—could he have driven from Tilston to Barbridge in the fog after that? And if so, could he have found the boat?”
“She might have given him specific directions,” suggested Gemma, but Kincaid was already frowning.
“I’d think that unless he was very familiar with that stretch of the Shroppie, he’d quite likely have ended up in the Cut rather than alongside it. You’ve seen how it twists and turns along that stretch.
Unless—”
He stopped as Larkin’s attention shifted towards the door. Turning, Gemma saw not Babcock, but Sergeant Rasansky, looking happier than she’d imagined possible.
“What’s up, Sarge?” asked Larkin, sounding equally surprised.
“You look like the proverbial cat in the cream.”
“I found the bloody Smiths.” Rasansky nodded at Kincaid and Gemma, and seated himself on the edge of Larkin’s desk, regardless of carefully arranged paperwork. “Settled in a retirement fl at in Shrewsbury—not a bad place if you like that sort—”
“Sarge,” Larkin interrupted, and Gemma guessed Rasansky had a tendency to be long-winded when he had
