There would be family, acquaintances, neighbors to interview.
Scene-of-crime would have turned up one or two things of possible interest, or the forensic pathologist could tell them the assailant had been right-handed, or the victim had been double the legal limit when he’d been knocked down by a car.
But so far this case had produced nothing but a series of roadblocks. Dr. Elsworthy had sent the child’s remains off to the Home Office forensic anthropologist, but Babcock knew it would be another day or two before he could expect a report.
Although scene-of-crime had extended their search from the building to the surrounding lane and pasture, they had turned up nothing more of interest—not that the bits they’d found in the barn itself qualified as interesting, although they had found a stash of vodka bottles beneath some stacked boards in a corner.
Nor had the neighbors who might have an address for the elusive Smiths, the barn’s previous owners, returned from their holiday. The manufacturer of the baby’s blanket was still closed, and Babcock’s old mate Jim Craddock, who had handled the Smiths’ sale of the property to the Fosters, was on holiday in Tenerife.
Rasansky’s canvass of the local shops that might have sold the child’s blanket had proved fruitless as well. In what he knew was an unfair fit of pique, Babcock had sent Rasansky back to reinterview the Fosters, although he suspected Rasansky would probably not find it a punishment—he and the Fosters would probably get on like a house afire.
“Penny for them, boss,” said Sheila Larkin, perching on the corner of the desk he’d commandeered in the incident room. She’d made a concession to the cold today, he saw, and wore tights and boots under her scrap of a skirt. “You look like you got out of the wrong side of the bed,” she added, eyeing him critically.
“Boiler’s still out,” he admitted. He’d spent another night on the sofa in front of his sitting-room fi re, sleeping fitfully while huddled under every duvet in the house, and had again missed his morning coffee.
“We could do with one of those Caribbean holidays,” she said sympathetically, and he noticed that her eyes were a sea green deep enough to swim in. Process of association, he told himself as he blinked and looked away, combined with sleep and caffeine deprivation.
There was only one other officer left in the incident room, collating reports. The case wasn’t a high enough priority, and there hadn’t been enough information coming in, to justify tying up more manpower. The main phone line rang and Larkin slipped off the desk to answer. She listened briefly, said, “Right, thanks,” and rang off.
“Your star witness has arrived,” she told him. “Shall I bring her down?”
“No, I think we’ll use my office rather than the dungeon. Much more likely to inspire confidence, I should think.”
“Does she need inspiring, your Mrs. Newcombe?” Larkin asked as they made their way up to reception. “All we need is her formal statement describing the discovery of the body, and the names of the lads in her crew.”
Babcock thought of Juliet Newcombe’s frightened face yesterday evening, and of the rather obvious effort Piers Dutton had made to cast doubt on her credibility. “I think it might be a bit more complicated than that,” he said, forbearing to add his hope that Kincaid’s girlfriend had brought Mrs. Newcombe, as she’d promised. He wouldn’t mind another chat with the copper- haired Gemma James.
But when they reached the lobby, it was Kincaid himself who stood beside his sister.
Kincaid, in jeans and a scuffed leather bomber jacket, looked more relaxed than when Babcock had seen him on Christmas Eve, while Juliet Newcombe looked unhappy but less frantic.
When Babcock made introductions, Larkin widened her eyes at Kincaid and said, “Ooh, Scotland Yard! Nice to meet you, sir. If you ever need any help in this part of the world—” Babcock’s reproving
glare only made her grin unrepentantly as she turned back to him.
“You want me to take Mrs. Newcombe’s statement, boss?” she asked.
“Why don’t you take Mrs. Newcombe to the family room,” he suggested. That would allow Larkin to take care of the formalities, and he could take Kincaid to his own office for a natter. There was always a chance that Larkin, for all her cheekiness, would elicit something from Juliet Newcombe that he might not.
Turning to her brother with a distressed expression, Juliet said,
“But—I thought you’d be with me—”
Kincaid squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry. You just tell the constable exactly what happened the other night. It’s only for the record.”
“The coffee here is rubbish,” Babcock said when Larkin had led Juliet away, “but I keep a kettle and some tea bags in my office for special visitors. Care for a cuppa?”
“I’m flattered.” Kincaid followed him, and when they were settled in the two chairs on the visitors’ side of Babcock’s desk, dunking their tea bags in mismatched mugs, he looked round the cramped space.
“You’ve not done too badly for yourself, Ronnie,” he commented.
“Don’t condescend to me, mate,” said Babcock lightly. “You’ve probably got a suite overlooking the bloody Thames.”
Kincaid laughed and shook his head. “Not likely, although you can get a glimpse of the river from my guv’nor’s office if you stand on a chair.” He fished out his tea bag and lobbed it accurately into the bin. “So, any developments with the case?” he asked, settling back in his chair with his hands wrapped round his mug for the warmth.
“Bugger all,” Babcock told him with a grimace. He outlined the results of the pathologist’s report and the negative progress in other areas. “I don’t suppose you’ve any suggestions? Not that I’m officially asking for Scotland Yard’s assistance, of course.”
“Patience, my son?” Kincaid ventured, then held up a hand to ward off an imaginary blow. “No, seriously, I’d say you’re pretty well stymied until the neighbors come back from their holiday and businesses reopen. Have you put a notice in the local media?”
“There’ll be a story in this week’s Chronicle. Maybe someone will remember a baby of an unspecified age who disappeared an unspecified number of years ago.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Kincaid said. “But you might have someone contact you with the Smiths’ address. I remember them, you know, although I’m not sure I’d have recalled the name.
But the barn was still a working dairy when we were kids. Jules and I—”
“Jules?”
“Sorry, Juliet. Juliet and I used to roam the canal like little fi ends, not something you could let your kids do these days. We were chased off by more than one farmer and his dog, but not by the Smiths.
They seemed a kindly couple, and although I thought of them as being ancient, I suspect they were only middle-aged.”
“You were close, then, you and your sister?” Babcock asked.
Kincaid hesitated for a moment, then said, “There’s only three years’ difference in our ages and, especially when we were small, our life was fairly isolated, so we spent a good deal of time together. But even then, I’m not sure I really knew her.” He shrugged. “And I suppose it’s only natural that you grow apart as you get older.”
Babcock saw an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about Juliet Newcombe. “Is she all right, your sister? Yesterday, she seemed more upset than I’d have expected.”
“Um, she’s having some . . . domestic issues,” Kincaid answered after a moment’s hesitation.
“Anything to do with this baby?”
“No, of course not.” Kincaid seemed surprised by the question.
“Although I don’t think finding the thing did wonders for her emotional equilibrium.”
“Understandable.” Babcock grimaced at the memory of the desiccated little form, then turned his mug in his fingers while he considered how much to reveal. “I had a chat with your brother- in- law’s