“She had her reasons,” he said, surprising himself. “And they’re mine to know,” he added, putting Larkin firmly in her place, then grinned. “But you can run down a couple of things for me.”
“Yes, sir, Guv’nor, sir.” Larkin saluted.
“I want you to find out anything you can about the doctor who filed the MSBP allegations against Rowan Wain. And then I want you to find out what happened to the parents of the little boy who was beaten to death by his foster father.”
Babcock was treating Kincaid and Gemma to the dubious pleasure of a late lunch at the Subway shop near the Crewe railway station when his phone rang. It was Rasansky, sounding jubilant.
“Preliminary from the fraud lads says you were right, Guv,” he said. “They’ve just reviewed the Constantines’ files and a few others, but it looks as though Dutton has been skimming. It’s certainly enough to have another word.”
Surveying the remains of his chicken breast on Parmesan bread, Babcock bundled it into its wrapper and tossed it into the nearest bin. “I’m on my way. Meet me there, and bring a couple of uniforms along for backup, just in case.”
“What’s happened?” Kincaid asked even before Babcock had disconnected. “Is it Wain?”
“No.” Babcock couldn’t resist a smile. “It’s Piers Dutton. It seems your sister was right.” He watched the emotions chase each other across his friend’s face—first satisfaction, then dismay as he realized the implications. “And no,” he continued, forestalling what he knew would come next, “you can’t come with me to interview him, either of you. You’ll just have to trust Cheshire CID to manage.”
Kincaid’s struggle not to argue was visible, but he was too experienced an officer not to know the difficulties his direct involvement could cause.
Gemma, Babcock saw, had shown no pleasure at Juliet Newcombe’s vindication. She listened without expression, all the while carefully folding the paper wrapper round her barely touched food.
“Why don’t the two of you wait for me at the station?” he suggested. “You can help Larkin with the files. Just don’t let her boss you around too much,” he added. “She’ll be insufferable if she thinks she can lord it over two detectives from the Big Smoke.”
Piers Dutton had stopped protesting the ransacking of his office. He stood in the reception area, watching tight-lipped as uniformed officers carried out the remainder of his files in boxes, and didn’t acknowledge Babcock’s entrance with so much as a blink.
“Sorry about the inconvenience,” Babcock said cheerfully. “Moving is always so disruptive, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Dutton?”
Dutton compressed his lips further, but the silent riposte wasn’t
in his nature, and after a moment he gave in to the temptation to retort. “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor, Chief Inspector. And don’t think you won’t regret this.”
“I’m surprised your solicitor isn’t here already. Have a bit of trouble running him down?”
“He was on holiday,” Dutton admitted reluctantly. “Not that it will matter, as there’s no question that what you’re doing here is illegal.”
“I can see why he wouldn’t be anxious to give up his post-Christmas amusements to deal with your spot of trouble.”
“Now see here, Babcock. I’ve rung your chief constable—”
“Yes, I’ve rung him myself,
Dutton quite wisely clamped his mouth closed on that one, but Babcock thought he looked a little pale. “And by the way, Mr. Dutton,” he added, “I don’t appreciate being threatened. I think you’ll find that sort of thing doesn’t win you any friends—especially if I should mention it to the custody sergeant at Crewe headquarters.”
“What are you talking about?” Dutton’s voice rose to a squeak of panic.
“You’re going to be our guest, Mr. Dutton, while we talk about Annie Lebow.”
“But you can’t—”
“I can. Twenty- four hours without charge, and then we’ll see where we are.” Babcock stepped closer, into the other man’s comfort zone. “You’re going to tell me about every contact you ever had with Annie Lebow, or with anyone connected with Annie Lebow. And then you’re going to take me through every second of your time the day before yes—”
“Boss?” Rasansky pushed open the door. “Mr. Newcombe’s here. He wants to—”
But Caspar Newcombe didn’t wait to have his mission announced. Shoving Rasansky, who outweighed him by a good two stone, aside, he barged into the room.
“Hey, you can’t—” Rasansky began, but Newcombe had already turned to Babcock.
“You’re in charge here? What is this? What do you think you’re doing?” He was wild-eyed with outrage, and his breath told Babcock he’d had a fortified lunch. “This is our business. You can’t just take things away. Piers, you’ll tell them—”
“Mr. Newcombe.” Babcock stepped back, out of range of Newcombe’s uncoordinatedly swinging arms. He knew Caspar Newcombe by sight, had even been briefly introduced to him once over drinks at a Nantwich pub, but he doubted the man remembered his name or title. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Babcock. Did your partner not tell you we had some questions about his accounts? Or that one of his clients was murdered night before last? And that unfortunately, it appears that Mr. Dutton had been helping himself to a percentage of her profits without permission?”
“What?” Newcombe’s thin face went slack with shock. “You can’t be ser—”
“Annie Lebow. Or Annie Constantine, according to your records. Mr. Dutton will be helping us with our inquiries.”
Newcombe turned to Dutton like a child asking for reassurance.
“Piers, this can’t be true—”
“I’m afraid it is true that Annie Constantine was murdered, Caspar, but I had nothing to do with it,” Dutton said, his voice even, soothing.
“And you haven’t—”
“Of course not. I’m sure the police will find it’s all a misunderstanding, perhaps a bookkeeping error. Juliet sometimes—” Dutton stopped and shrugged, and Newcombe nodded, accepting the implication without protest.
He turned back to Babcock and regarded him owlishly. “Night before last, you say?”
“Yes.”
Newcombe drew himself up to his full height. “Then you have no reason to harass my partner, Inspector. Piers was with me the entire evening.”
From the corner of his eye, Babcock saw the flash of dismay on Dutton’s face.
Juliet wanted nothing more than a hot bath. Her entire body felt as if it had been stomped on by a rugby team, due, she suspected, to her daylong efforts to put a good face on her rising internal panic.
She’d begun by taking her foreman, Jim, to the building site, and while she viewed the aftermath left by the deconstruction crew with horror, he’d stood shaking his head in a wordless dismay that made her feel even worse.
Leaving him to it, she’d retreated to her van and, forcing a smile on her face, had rung the Bonners in London and told them cheerfully that it would take only a few days to get back on schedule.
Her clients were already jittery over the idea that their future home had been used as a burial ground for a child, and Juliet was afraid that with the snowballing delays, they might cut their losses and pull out altogether. When her thoughts strayed down that path, her heart began to pound.
There would be other jobs. She and the kids wouldn’t starve—they could stay with her folks as long as necessary, and it was only her pride that would suffer. And if worse came to worst and her business failed, she could find another job. She had skills; she’d managed
Caspar’s office efficiently enough—in spite of Piers—and she’d made a good bit on the side doing small fix-up
