“You don’t mean—”
“Yes, I do mean it.” Her eyes filled. “I hate her. I wish she were dead.”
Kit crossed the room in two strides. When the edge of the bed stopped his forward momentum, he reached out and slapped Lally across the face, hard. Only then did he realize he was shaking with anger. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You don’t know what it means.”
He waited for her to hit back, to tell him to sod off, to yell for help, but she only stared at him and whispered, “And you don’t know what she’s done.” The tears that had threatened spilled over, making glistening trails across the white handprint on her cheek, and Kit felt ashamed.
“Lally, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—it’s just that—”
“She’s ruined everything. Why
couldn’t she just leave things
alone? We were all right the way we were.”
Feeling helpless now, Kit sat down beside her. He pulled her hand from the pack and held it between his own. “Look, I know your parents aren’t getting on, but whatever happens with them, you’ll be okay.” Her hand felt like a live thing between his, a small creature caught unawares, still with terror.
“I won’t.” Her eyes met his, and in them he saw a certainty that chilled him.
Before he could speak, she pulled her hand away and zipped the pack. “I’m going out tonight,” she said dully. “As soon as it’s dark.”
“You can’t,” he protested. “Your mother’s practically had you under lock and key, even in the daytime.”
“She can’t watch me every minute. And she can’t stop me walking out the door.”
“Why do you have to go out? Tell me what’s going on—”
“Why should I?” she said, defiant now. “Why should it matter?”
It was a challenge, and Kit knew suddenly that if he failed her now he would never make it up.
“God almighty, he’s one slick bastard.” Kevin Rasansky shook his head, half in obvious disgust, half in admiration. He’d just come from the interview room where Babcock had been questioning Piers Dutton for the last few hours, and had apparently picked out Gemma and Kincaid as the most appreciative audience.
They had settled into the temporary incident room, lending a hand where they could, both chafing at the inactivity and their lack of command, but unwilling to leave. Gemma had taken Sheila Larkin’s desk, as the DC had gone to meet Roger Constantine at the morgue. She was thumbing through files she knew Larkin had already scanned while keeping an uneasy eye on Kincaid, who had gone broodingly silent as the hours passed. It worried her, and she had to keep herself from overcompensating with cheery conversation.
“And now he’s got his high- priced lawyer, I doubt we’ll keep him twenty- four hours,” Rasansky continued, seeing that he had their attention.
“But surely with the evidence in his files—” Gemma began, but Rasansky interrupted her.
“Oh, no doubt we’ll get a fraud charge somewhere down the line, but it may take months to build a solid case. And in the meantime, his alibi for the night of Lebow’s death is at least convincing enough that I don’t think the boss will charge him without corroborating evidence. His friends confirmed that he had dinner with them in s
Tarporley, and that he didn’t leave the pub until well after ten. They also admitted, a bit reluctantly, that he’d had a good bit to drink, and probably shouldn’t have driven. And if he was that cut, how likely is it that he stumbled his way down the towpath in the fog, pulled Lebow’s mooring pin loose, and waited patiently for her to come out and see what was amiss?”
“Then what about Caspar Newcombe?” asked Kincaid. Babcock had told them about Caspar’s hastily proffered alibi for his partner.
“Dutton says he admires his loyalty, but that Newcombe’s gesture was ‘misguided.’ The man’s an idiot, if you ask me,” Rasansky added, and Gemma wondered if he’d forgotten that Caspar Newcombe was Kincaid’s brother-in- law. Anyone with the barest minimum of tact would have stopped at the expression on Kincaid’s face, but Rasansky barreled on. “We’ve applied for a warrant for Newcombe’s fi les as well, and we’ve padlocked the premises in the meantime. If we’re lucky, we’ll get both the bastards for fraud.” He smiled at them, pleased at his prediction.
Gemma had managed a strangled “Yes” when, with great relief, she saw Sheila Larkin come in through the door. Larkin stopped, belatedly, to stomp caked snow off her boots onto the industrial carpet. “Bloody snowing again,” she said as she reached them, and when Gemma started to get up, she waved her back into her chair. She tossed her padded coat over a vacant desk and continued to Gemma,
“You’re welcome to it. I’ve got to use the computer. Any luck with Dutton?”
The DCI is still in with him.”
Larkin made a face. “Bugger all on this end, too, except in the pro cess of elimination. I met Roger Constantine at the morgue for the formal identification.” She propped a hip on the desk, pushing a paper stack out of the way. “He was pretty cut up, poor bloke, so I thought I’d take advantage of his
“He was shocked to find his neighbors had been gossiping about his occasional dinners in the pub with the young woman—turns out she’s his goddaughter. But he did admit, with a bit of encouragement, that after his call from Lebow on the night she was killed, he spent the rest of the evening visiting a neighbor. It seems her husband was out of town, but she’s willing to back him up if need be.” Shrugging, Larkin added, “Can’t say I blame him for having a bit on the side, if they’d been separated for five years. It’s only human, isn’t it? But he says he’d have taken her back in an instant if that’s what she’d wanted.”
“That’s all very well after the fact,” Kincaid said sharply. “But we can’t be sure that Annie Lebow didn’t threaten to pull the plug on his finances that night—maybe she found out about the neighbor and didn’t take quite such a philosophical view. And we can’t discount the possibility that said neighbor was in on it with him. Maybe she plans to leave her husband when Constantine inherits.”
“You’re as cynical as my guv’nor,” Larkin said, dimpling at him.
“But that doesn’t tell us how he drove from Tilston to Barbridge in blinding fog, then found his way along the towpath to the boat. And he seems more a cere bral type, if you know what I mean. If he were going to kill her, I can’t see him bashing her over the head. I’d bet he’d plan ahead, and make it look like an accident, or suicide. After all, she had a history of depression.”
“You’ve an evil mind.” Kincaid looked inordinately cheered, and if Gemma hadn’t been so relieved at the lifting of his mood, she’d have felt a stab of jealousy.
“What about the other leads the guv’nor asked you to follow up?” put in Rasansky, breaking up the party to which he hadn’t been invited.
“No joy. The doctor who made the MSBP diagnosis was on duty that night, with multiple witnesses. And as for the parents of the child who died in foster care, the mother committed suicide a couple of years ago, and after that the father went completely off the rails.
He’s serving time for aggravated assault and dealing.” Even Larkin’s cheeky demeanor seemed dampened by the recital of this sad little story. Standing, she said, “I’d better get these reports entered and printed before the boss takes a break from his interview.”
While Larkin made her way to a vacant computer terminal, Rasansky pulled Kincaid aside and began questioning him about procedures at the Yard. Gemma suspected he was trying to impress Kincaid, with an eye to a transfer, and judging from Kincaid’s air of polite forbearance, he’d come to the same conclusion.
Trying to put from her mind the thought of the parents whose child’s death had deprived them of any reason to pull their own lives together, Gemma restraightened the papers Sheila Larkin had shoved aside. Lifting the top page of the stack, she saw that it was part of Annie Constantine’s report on the Wain case. Gemma had read the narrative earlier, remarking on the clarity of the writing, and Constantine’s obvious compassion. She wished she had met her. Even after her years on the job, the finality of death never failed to jar her; the human mind was so geared to think in the future tense, about opportunities yet to come. But there would be no tomorrows for Annie Constantine, and Gemma felt a personal pang of loss.
Now she glanced through the narrative idly, half listening to Kincaid and Rasansky’s conversation, half worrying about the latest development with Caspar Newcombe and Kincaid’s reaction to it.
Then a sentence caught her eye. She stopped, rereading, feeling a frisson of shock travel up her spine. Closing her eyes, she brought back the image of the little girl, fishing under her large black umbrella.
