“What can I do for you, Mrs. Constantine?” she asked, stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her.
“It’s Lebow now,” she said, explaining her earlier hesitation. “I’ve gone back to my maiden name.”
Not sure whether this called for condolences or congratulations, Althea merely nodded. “Do go on.” The previous day’s crisp blue skies had given way to tattered gray clouds that mirrored the slush remaining underfoot, and the chill was beginning to seep through her heavy sweater.
“I’ve come to ask a favor,” said Lebow, huddling a bit closer into her fleece jacket, as if preparing for a long stay. Then she told Althea what she wanted.
“I don’t see why I have to do this.” Juliet Newcombe sounded as truculent as a ten-year-old whisked off to visit an ailing and disliked relative.
Kincaid took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at his sister, who sat beside him in the passenger seat of Gemma’s Escort.
The day was shaping up to be gray and unremittingly frigid, and even halfway to Crewe the car’s heater hadn’t managed to dent the chill.
Juliet held her coat closed at the throat, as if warding off something more solid than the cold air issuing from the heater vents, and even with her face averted, he could see the dark shadows under her eyes.
His excuse in taking her had been that he wanted to talk to his sister—true—but he suspected Gemma knew him well enough to guess that he also wanted to see what progress the local police had made in identifying the mummified child.
With another glance at Juliet’s intractable expression, he said reasonably, “It’s routine, I’ve told you. And as you can’t start work again until the police release the crime scene, I should think you’d want to be as cooperative as possible.” Then, reminding himself that his objective was to communicate with her, he added, “Look. I know things are a bit rough for you at the moment with Caspar. If there’s anything I can—”
She shook her head so violently that strands of her dark hair fl ew loose from her clip. When she spoke, the words seemed to explode without volition. “There’s nothing anyone can do. He’s a total shit, and I’m a complete idiot for not having seen it years ago.” She stopped, clamping her lips together as if to stop the flow, and shrugged. “But thanks.”
“I take it you’re not going to go home and kiss and make up, then,” Kincaid said, then asked, “Jules, are you afraid of him?”
Her shoulders jerked, an involuntary spasm. “No. Yes. I don’t know. He’s never, you know, hit me or anything. But . . . he’s changed lately. Those things he said on Christmas Eve . . .” He saw the color creep up her cheeks at the memory. “And then yesterday, things just seemed to get blown all out of proportion. I don’t see how I can go home and pretend nothing’s happened.”
“Has he tried to ring you?”
“I don’t know. Not at Mum and Dad’s, anyway, and I turned my mobile off. I took Lally’s away as well—I didn’t want him ringing her. She’s furious with me. You’d think I’d amputated an arm.”
Kincaid wasn’t to be distracted. “You don’t think Caspar’s worried about you?”
This time Juliet looked at him, just long enough to roll her eyes.
“He must know where I am, otherwise Mum and Dad would have called out the cavalry. And besides, where else would I go? It’s not like I lead the jet-setter’s lifestyle and can run off and borrow a friend’s villa in Cap-Ferrat for a few days while I have a think.”
Sarcasm had always been his sister’s weapon; that, at least, hadn’t changed. “Well, you’ll have to talk to him at some point. If you like, I can go round with you. To the house, or the office.”
“No!” Juliet’s voice soared in panic. “I can’t speak to him. Not yet.
Not until I’ve worked out what to do. The children— The house—
How can I possibly—”
“Jules,” he interrupted gently, “you can’t imagine the current state of affairs is good for the children.”
“No, but . . . I just can’t see any options.” The car had warmed and she had stopped clutching her coat, but now her fingers picked restlessly at a loose button.
“You ask Caspar to move out. Then you get a lawyer and fi le for divorce.”
Juliet sucked in a breath, as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus.
“That is what all this means, Jules. Unless you think counseling or some sort of intervention—”
“Oh, God, no.” She gave a bitter whoop and wiped at her eyes.
“Caspar in counseling? He’d die first.”
“Then—”
“You think everything’s so bloody simple, don’t you?” Turning to him for the first time, she said, “So tell me how I’m going to support my kids.”
“Your business—”
“I just barely manage to pay my crew and keep my head above water. Maybe when this job is finished, there’ll be a bit left over, but we were already behind schedule, and now—”
“It’s called maintenance, Jules.” Kincaid’s patience was failing.
“Caspar will have to contribute to his children’s upkeep. That’s only to be expect—”
“You don’t understand. You don’t know him. He’ll find some way to get out of it. Just because you do the right thing, you assume other fathers will do the same.” Then she suddenly slumped in her seat and touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That’s not fair. And I’ve never said, about Kit, that I was glad for you, or that I was proud of what you’ve done for him. I was so busy resenting you for being perfect that I never realized how much I took for granted.”
Kincaid gave his sister a startled glance. What had he ever done that she should think him perfect? Was that why she always seemed angry with him?
“I was so naive that I thought all men were like you and Daddy,”
she went on. “Sometimes I think growing up in a so-called normal family wasn’t adequate preparation for life. But you—your experiences can’t have been that different from mine. How do you do what you do? Take things like mummified babies in your stride?”
“It’s not like that,” he responded, stung. “It’s not a matter of taking things in stride. It’s just that you learn to . . . separate . . . what you see. It’s a problem to be solved, and I like knowing that there’s something I can do.” He wouldn’t tell her how often the lines bled, how often the horror crept in on everyday life, especially since he had found Gemma and the boys.
“Power, then. Is that what it is? You like thinking you’re an instrument of justice?” She was challenging him again, her earlier moment of contrition seemingly forgotten.
“No.” In his early days on the job, he might have been forced to admit that there was some truth in her accusation. Now, however, there were too many days when the beastliness and sheer pettiness he encountered threatened to overwhelm him, when he had to force himself to look for the embers of humanity that sparked among the dregs.
Juliet must have heard the weariness in his voice, because after a quick glance she averted her face again. As he negotiated a roundabout, he sifted through the things his sister had told him, wondering how he could begin to respond. And then, with a spike in his pulse, he realized what she’d avoided so adroitly by turning the conversation to their own family.
“Jules,” he said sharply, “those things Caspar said the other night—
is there any truth to them? Is that why you won’t stand up to him?”
It was not that Ronnie Babcock was unaccustomed to frustration. A good part of policing involved frustration—cases were seldom solved in the day or two allowed in the crime dramas on the telly—but at least there were usually some small avenues of progress.