We were—we never saw a need to consider divorce.”
“But you talked often?”
“Fairly often. Sometimes I wouldn’t hear from her for a few weeks.
That usually meant she was having a bad time.” Constantine looked from Kincaid to Babcock. “You’re certain she didn’t—”
“There’s no question that your wife harmed herself, Mr. Constantine,” Kincaid said, and saw an easing of the other man’s features.
Why this should be a reassurance, why suicide should seem worse than murder, he didn’t know—perhaps it was that the suicide of a loved one carried with it such responsibility for those left behind.
“Then if she— Was she robbed? I kept telling her— She didn’t have anything of value really, but the boat itself—” Constantine stood suddenly, running both hands through his already bristling white hair as if he could no longer contain his agitation.
Babcock stepped in. “There’s no sign that anything was taken from the boat, or from your wife’s person. We will, of course, need you to look things over for us at some point to confirm this.”
“But then—” Constantine’s eyes were wide, the pupils dilated.
The dog nudged his knee, whining, but he ignored it. “Then what the hell happened to my wife?” he said, his voice rising. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Babcock hesitated, and Kincaid guessed he was weighing the disadvantages of revealing the manner of death against his obligation to provide information to a grieving spouse. Constantine had said nothing to indicate any knowledge of the circumstances, and they wouldn’t be able to keep it to themselves for long in any case. “Your wife’s body was found on the towpath, not on the boat, Mr. Constantine,” Babcock said at last. “Someone hit her over the head.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Grasping the chair back, Constantine eased himself into it again without looking, like a blind man. “Why would anyone want to hurt my wife?”
“We were hoping you might be able to tell us that.”
“Annie never harmed anyone— For God’s sake, she hardly spoke to anyone.” Constantine’s tone was accusatory. “She wasn’t—tell me she wasn’t—” His face lost its little remaining color.
With surprising gentleness, Babcock said, “Your wife does not appear to have been sexually molested.”
Constantine dropped his face into his hands and sat, unmoving.
After a moment, Kincaid rose and went to the sink, finding a glass in the second cupboard he opened. As he filled it from the tap, he noticed a dusting of fine white hairs on the dark blue tile of the work top. It appeared that Roger Constantine and his German shepherd shared their house hold with a cat. He wondered if the cat had been Annie’s, and if so, why she had left it behind. He could imagine her with a cat, a tidy beast that echoed her reserve.
The water from the tap was icy and he held the glass for a moment, feeling the coolness against his fingertips as he gazed out the window above the sink. It overlooked the side garden, a swath of green winter grass studded with the bare silhouettes of fruit trees.
In spring, when the trees were in bloom, it must be magnificent.
What could have moved Annie Lebow to give all this up for life on a seven- by-sixty-foot boat, no matter how well outfitted?
He returned to the table and touched Roger Constantine on the shoulder. Looking up, Constantine took the glass and drained it as thirstily as a parched wanderer in the desert.
“Thanks,” Constantine said hoarsely as he set the empty tumbler on the table, then rubbed the back of his hand across his tear-streaked cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—there’s tea if you want.”
“No, we’re fine.” Kincaid sat again, this time in the chair nearest Constantine, and took the liberty of stroking the dog’s thick coat.
“Mr. Constantine—Roger—do you mind if I call you Roger?” Without waiting for Constantine’s assent, he went on, “Roger, do you and your wife own this house jointly?”
Constantine looked a little surprised at the question, but not alarmed. “No. Actually, it’s Annie’s family home. She inherited the place when her parents died. Merchant pirates, she liked to call the Lebows. Her great-great-great-grandfather started with one ship out
of Liverpool, and had built this place as a weekend getaway in the country by the time he retired.”
“Quite an accomplishment.”
“Yes, but Annie was always a little ashamed of the family history. She felt their fortune was built on exploiting the poor. I think it’s one of the reasons she went into social work—as a sort of penance.”
That would explain a good bit, Kincaid thought, including the means for the early retirement and the fact that even her self-imposed exile had reflected the best money could buy. He wondered if she had seen the irony of it.
It also opened up a Pandora’s box of questions, and he saw Babcock sit up a bit straighter, suddenly alert with interest.
“Your wife owned this place in its entirety, and she was content to let you stay here like a lodger?” Babcock raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Yes. We were married, for God’s sake,” Constantine answered defensively. “I told you—”
“It’s a nice deal, you have to admit.” Babcock shook his head.
“My ex should have been half so generous. And who stands to inherit, if your wife was the last of her family?”
“I do, as far as I know.” Constantine stared at him, the color rising in his fair skin. “You’re not suggesting I killed my wife for this house! That’s obscene.”
The dog tensed at his master’s tone, its hackles rising, and began a low, steady growl, just above the threshold of hearing. Withdraw-ing his hand, Kincaid wished he hadn’t sat quite so close to the beast.
“It is a substantial property,” said Babcock, undaunted. “Worth a pretty penny on the market, if one were a bit short of the ready.
Did you carry life insurance on your wife, by the way?” he added conversationally.
After a moment, Constantine answered reluctantly. “Yes. We insured one another, years ago, when we were first married. It’s a small premium—I’ve never thought to change it.” He looked from Babcock to Kincaid, outrage turning to appeal. “Jesus Christ. You can’t think—”
“Mr. Constantine,” asked Babcock, “what did you do last night, after your wife rang you?”
For the first time Kincaid thought he glimpsed a flicker of terror in the man’s eyes. “Nothing,” Constantine said. “I mean, I was here, working on a piece.” He gestured at the books and papers covering the table. “I’m up against a deadline.”
Babcock’s smile held all the warmth of a shark bite. “Is there anyone who can verify that, Mr. Constantine, other than your dog?”
Chapter Eighteen
The tag end of the crime-scene tape rose and fl uttered, briefly animated by a gust of wind, then it dropped, hanging limply beside its anchoring stake as though exhausted by its effort. Gemma and Juliet Newcombe stood outside the tape’s boundary, surveying the ruin of Juliet’s building site.
A sea of muck stretched before them, the sodden ground pock-marked by the treads of heavy equipment and human boots. The prospect was as desolate as the moon, and a good bit messier. Figures in overalls came and went from the shell of the dairy barn, and the sporadic sounds of hammering and banging echoed like shotgun retorts in the cold air.
Juliet stared, her face stamped with dismay, then fury seemed to propel her into motion. She ducked under the tape and set off across the muck like a Valkyrie going to battle. Gemma, with a wince of regret for her London shoes, followed more carefully, wondering what she had got herself into.