Chapter Twenty-two
Babcock reached Nantwich town center at half past eight the next morning to find the premises of Newcombe and Dutton still locked, blinds closed. He strolled across to the churchyard, taking up a position on a bench that would allow him to keep an unobtrusive eye on the firm’s door. The morning was gray, the remnants of the previous night’s fog still hovering round the rooftops and the massive square of the church tower, and it wasn’t long before the chill of the bench slats worked its way through his overcoat. He’d begun to contemplate the advisability of adding a pound or two of padding to his backside when a shiny new Land Rover (both adjectives oxymorons when combined with Land Rover, in Babcock’s opinion) pulled into the firm’s parking area and Piers Dutton climbed unhurriedly out.
Babcock found it interesting that it was Dutton who’d arrived first to open the office, when Caspar Newcombe lived just a short walk away. But perhaps investment advisors, unlike police officers, relaxed their schedules during Christmas week. The development suited him well enough, however, as he wanted to interview Dutton on his own.
He gave Dutton a few minutes to get settled so as not to give the
impression he’d been waiting to pounce. He wanted the man relaxed, at least in the beginning.
While he waited, he popped knuckles stiffening from the cold and ran over the conversation he’d had with Duncan Kincaid the night before. It was a tricky situation. Not only had Kincaid told him about his sister’s suspicions against her wishes, but Babcock didn’t know Juliet Newcombe well enough to judge her credibility. For all he knew, she might have made the entire business up to satisfy a personal grudge.
When the office blinds snapped open, Babcock took it as his cue and, prizing himself off the bench, crossed Churchyardside to the office, at the end of Monk’s Lane. A bell chimed gently as Babcock pushed open the door and stepped into the reception area. Piers Dutton came out of an inner office, looking surprised to see him, but not alarmed.
“You’re the early bird, Chief Inspector,” he said genially. “What can I do for you?”
“Just a quick word, Mr. Dutton, if you don’t mind.”
“No further along, are you, in finding the elusive Smiths?” Dutton asked as he waved Babcock towards the room from which he’d appeared. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Yes, thanks.” Babcock, never a morning person himself, had not expected such cordiality from Dutton. He wasn’t about to refuse what he suspected would be good coffee, however, especially as he was half frozen.
Following Dutton, he looked round the man’s private office with interest. He’d been right about the coffeemaker. A sleek German contraption that looked as if it might run on rocket fuel took center stage on the credenza against the back wall, and the smell emanating from it was enough to make Babcock light-headed.
The rest of the furnishings matched the credenza, never a look that appealed to Babcock personally, but the patina of the wood and the thickness of the carpet beneath his feet shouted money, as he
supposed it was meant to do. The maize-colored wall behind Dutton’s desk held a single painting, an ornately framed study of a bay horse and spaniel in the style of George Stubbs. But the more Babcock studied the jewel- like depth of the colors and the exquisite execution of the brushwork, the more he began to wonder if it actually was a Stubbs, and he whistled soundlessly through his teeth.
“There you are, Chief Inspector.” Dutton handed him a coffee, in a bone-china cup and saucer, no less, and looked at him quizzically.
“Just admiring your painting, sir,” said Babcock, going for the country-bumpkin air. “Reminds me of a picture I saw once in London, at the Tate. By George Stubbs, I think it was.”
Dutton turned to gaze at the painting, but didn’t quite manage to hide the flicker of pleasure that crossed his face. “Very astute of you, Chief Inspector. It is a Stubbs. A family heirloom, actually, but I keep it here where I can enjoy it most.”
Babcock rather doubted that, as Dutton’s back would be to the painting as he sat at his desk, just as he doubted the painting was a family heirloom, but he looked suitably impressed. “Not worried about theft, then, sir?” he asked, eyeing the office window, which looked directly out onto the parking area and, beyond that, the town square.
“Our security’s quite good,” said Dutton. “And I don’t bandy the painting’s provenance about. Very few people are aware of its value.”
He eyed Babcock curiously, and while Babcock felt he might have erred in displaying interest in the painting, he found it telling that Dutton hadn’t been able to resist bragging about his possession.
Dutton poured his own coffee, then seated himself in one of the two visitors’ chairs, motioning Babcock to take the other one. It was a gesture designed to make Babcock feel comfortable, one Babcock imagined Dutton used when he was working a client up to an agreement, and he wondered why the man had changed his tactic after the subtle condescension he’d displayed during their first interview. It
could be that the mention of the painting had made Dutton feel he deserved to be treated as a social equal—a thought that made Babcock want to grind his teeth—or it could be that Dutton was nervous about something. Babcock’s curiosity rose another notch.
“Actually, Mr. Dutton, it’s not the Smiths I’ve come about,” he said. Having sipped the coffee, and found it as good as it smelled, he balanced the delicate cup on his knee. “Do I take it you haven’t heard about yesterday’s murder?”
“Murder?” Dutton gazed at him blankly.
“A woman named Annie Lebow was found murdered beside her narrowboat, quite near your house, in fact.” When Dutton still registered nothing but puzzlement, Babcock added, “I believe you might have known her as Annie Constantine. She was one of your clients.”
“What?” Dutton’s eyes widened, and Babcock could have sworn he saw real shock, quickly camouflaged, in the slackening muscles of the man’s face. “Of course I know Annie Constantine,” Dutton said slowly. “Don’t know why she started calling herself Lebow, when she and her husband aren’t even divorced.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what he’d heard. “Dead, you say?”
“Can you account for your movements night before last, Mr.
Dutton?” asked Babcock, tiring of the man’s baffled-squire act when he felt quite sure there was lightning calculation going on behind the blue eyes.
“My movements? Why on earth would you need to know that?”
Although he sounded incensed, Dutton’s china rattled in his hand.
He leaned forward to set the cup and saucer on the edge of his desk, sloshing coffee as he did so.
“Routine inquiries,” Babcock said, knowing it would irritate Dutton. “But I’m sure you want to cooperate in any way you can.”
“Of course,” Dutton agreed heartily. “But I hadn’t met with Annie Constantine for at least a year, so I don’t quite see—”
“Were you at home the night before last, Mr. Dutton?”
“I— No, actually, I met friends for dinner, at the Swan in Tarporley. We finished about half past ten, and I drove home. The fog was drawing in, so I thought it best to get off the road before the visibility worsened.” Now Dutton was volunteering information, an indication that he was definitely off balance. “Especially as I’d had one or two glasses of wine over the limit,” he added, imparting the confi dence with a slight twinkle, one sophisticated man to another.
Babcock didn’t return the smile. “And when you arrived home, can anyone vouch for your movements? Your son, perhaps?”
Dutton’s careful bonhomie vanished instantly. Blanching, he said furiously, “I won’t have you grilling my son, Chief Inspector. I can’t think why you believe any of this is necessary—”