In the end, it had been Gemma who’d insisted he go with Babcock to see Roger Constantine. Listening in on Babcock’s interview with Kit had been enough to convince him that Gemma was right—
they couldn’t just walk away from this and pretend nothing had happened. And if that was the case, she’d argued, it made sense for him to make use of his connection with Babcock, especially as Babcock seemed willing to accommodate him. He’d just have to be careful to maintain his role as spectator, as he suspected Babcock would draw the line at active interference in his investigation.
“You said this fellow Constantine was a journalist?” he asked Babcock. “I wonder at our odds of catching him at home.”
Babcock narrowed his eyes in an effort of recall. “I think I remember Annie saying he was a features writer for one of the major northwest papers. Of course, we could have tried contacting him by phone first, but I’d prefer to break bad news in person if at all possible.” It sounded compassionate, but Kincaid knew there was calculation attached—it always paid to see the first reactions of those closest to the victim.
“Then we’ll hope he works from home, or that journalists take a long Christmas holiday.” Kincaid resisted the urge to pump an imaginary brake as Babcock slowed sharply for a slow- moving farm lorry.
When the way was clear, Babcock downshifted and zipped round it with ease. The road had begun to twist and turn, making an ideal showcase for the BMW’s power and maneuverability.
The character of the countryside changed rapidly as one traveled west from Nantwich. Within just a few miles, the land rose from the flat of the Cheshire Plain into gently wooded undulations, and the simple brick farmhouses began to sport brightly colored gingerbread trim. Kincaid had never learned what had inspired the architectural embellishments, but when he was a boy, the decoration had made him think of cottages in enchanted Germanic forests. The childhood that had allowed such imaginings now seemed impossibly distant, and the loss of his son’s opportunity for such innocence struck him as forcibly as a blow.
Ronnie Babcock took his eyes from the road to glance at Kincaid. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Sorry?” Kincaid responded.
Babcock said, “You’re remembering the Ford Anglia I had at school.”
Relieved, Kincaid said lightly, “Of course. But I never had the dubious pleasure of riding in it.” He recalled the car well, though, a Saloon special with Venetian-gold paintwork, held together with considerable assistance from baling wire. Ronnie had worked several after-school jobs to save the money for it, and the car had been his pride and joy.
“A good thing, too,” Babcock agreed. “I had a passenger or two fall out through the floorboards. I was thinking of building a roof ejector when the old girl finally clapped out on me.”
“You’ve done well for yourself, Ronnie.” Kincaid’s gesture took in the BMW, but he meant more than that.
Babcock gave a sardonic smile. “I suppose I have. Just look at me now—overworked, with an overly mortgaged unheated house, and no one but an elderly aunt for company. Just what any working-class lad should strive for.”
“You’re not married, then?”
“Divorced. Just this last year.” Babcock’s grimace was worth a thousand words. “What about you? Why haven’t you and the lovely Gemma tied the knot?”
Taken aback, Kincaid glanced at his friend, but Babcock’s eyes were on the road.
“It’s complicated,” he said slowly. “In the beginning, we were working together, so I suppose we got in the habit of being secretive.
You know how it is. It would have been all right for me if it had come out, just a bit of nudge, nudge, wink, wink from the worst tossers in the locker room, that sort of thing. But for Gemma, it would have meant a permanent shadow on her career. There would always have been whispers that she’d slept her way into promotions, no matter how capable she proved herself.” Even now, the unfairness of it made his blood pressure rise, and he shook his head in disgust before going on. “So when she made inspector and transferred to another posting, we more or less kept on as we were. But then . . .”
Kincaid hesitated.
“Then we found out that Gemma was pregnant. We moved in together, but I—I think neither of us wanted to feel that—”
“Marriage was a necessity of circumstance?” Babcock finished for him when he halted again. “That would have been a blow to your pride.”
Kincaid nodded, feeling his face flush at the accuracy of the hit.
“Just so. It seems unutterably selfish now.”
Frowning, Babcock said, “But it’s been some time, hasn’t it? I met your younger boy, when I came to the house.”
“Oh, no,” Kincaid hastened to explain. “Toby is Gemma’s son, from her first marriage. We—Gemma lost our baby, halfway to term.
That was a year ago.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Babcock looked at him, his battered face creased in sympathy. “That’s a bloody shame.”
Not trusting himself to accept the commiseration, Kincaid went on, “Since then, we’ve just sort of muddled along, the four of us living as a family. Not unhappily,” he amended, afraid his words had implied that. “It’s just that—I don’t know if she’d have chosen differently, you see, if it hadn’t been for the child.” Kincaid realized it was the first time he’d admitted his fear, even to himself, and he felt suddenly as exposed as if he’d laid bare his chest to the knife.
“You could ask her,” Babcock suggested, as if it were the most reasonable response imaginable.
“Christ, no.” Kincaid shook his head. “I’d be forcing her into a corner then, and if she told me what I wanted to hear, I’d never be sure if she was being honest or just kind.” He thought of her refusal to discuss trying for another child, and felt cold.
He searched for a change of subject, glad that Babcock was momentarily distracted as he downshifted and left the A for a B road signposted no man’s heath. “That sounds a desolate place,” Kincaid offered, a little too quickly.
“A bit Shakespearean,” Babcock agreed. “But there’s a nice pub there, as it happens. That’s why I came this way, I suppose. Old habits.” With that ambiguous and uninviting comment, he fell silent, leaving Kincaid to gaze at the scenery and wonder about his friend’s reticence.
They were nearing the Welsh border, and he could see that it had
snowed more heavily here. Snow still lingered on the eaves of the isolated farmhouses, and as they passed through the pretty redbrick hill town of Malpas, the anti- icing grit crunched under the BMW’s tires.
A few miles farther north, the tree- lined lane dipped and curved into the hamlet of Tilston. Although they slowed to a crawl, reading the address plaques on the cottages and suburban bungalows lining the road, they still missed Roger Constantine’s house the first time past. The steep entrance to its drive faced away from them, so that they only saw the address when they had turned around at the postage stamp of a village green and come back from the opposite direction.
In a village of cottages and suburban bungalows, the Victorian lodge stood on a high bank above the road, screened from below by the large trees and shrubs of a mature garden.
“Blimey,” Babcock said eloquently as they bumped up the narrow gravel drive and pulled to a stop on the forecourt. “Nice digs for a journalist, wouldn’t you say?”
Kincaid had to agree. The house’s brick facade was a mellow rose rather than the harsh burnt red used often in Cheshire and North Wales, and the gleaming white trim looked freshly painted.
“Maybe he’s sold a few exclusives to the Sun, ” Kincaid quipped.