“There’s only one problem with all this,” broke in Gemma. They all turned to stare at her.
She had been listening, first with a rush of relief that perhaps none of this would touch Juliet after all, then with growing dismay as she put the pieces together.
“More than one, actually. First, Annie Constantine had the case dismissed, and from what you’ve just said, the doctors never found evidence that the child was physically abused. Basically, they were accusing the mother of making up his illness, to get attention for herself.”
As Larkin nodded slowly, Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And,” Gemma said, “Marie Wain is alive and well, and as bright and healthy a seven-year-old as you could imagine. I’ve met her.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Babcock had come into the station whistling under his breath, having left Piers Dutton shouting at some solicitor’s poor secretary and the fraud team beginning a systematic removal of his fi les. All in a good morning’s work, he’d told himself. He was liking Dutton more and more for Annie Lebow’s murder, and the fact that he’d developed a healthy distaste for the man only added to his satisfaction. Police officers, of course, were supposed to be unbiased, but he’d yet to meet one who didn’t enjoy making a collar on a bastard like Dutton.
Now, if he could just sort out this business with the baby—
The whistle died on his lips as he caught sight of the posse gathered round Sheila Larkin’s desk. Larkin, Rasansky, Kincaid, and the lovely Gemma, all watching him with expressions that boded no good.
“You lot look like a convention of funeral directors,” he said as he reached them, his heart sinking. “What’s happened, then?”
It was Kincaid who told him, concisely, ignoring increasingly evil looks from Rasansky, who would rather be the bearer of bad news than shoved out of the picture altogether. Larkin was chewing on a fingernail again, a habit he thought she’d broken.
“Guv—” Rasansky began when Kincaid had finished his summary, but Babcock held up a hand for silence.
“Just let me think a minute, Kevin.” He patted his coat pockets, as he always did when faced with a problem, then remembered, as he always did, that he no longer smoked. He settled for nicking a pencil off Larkin’s desk and rotating it in his fingers as he said,
“Okay, so this Wain fellow can’t have murdered his baby daughter.
But it can’t simply be coincidence that he did mortar work in the dairy near the time the infant must have been interred, or that he knew Annie Lebow, or that he had a public row with her a day before she died.”
“Maybe he didn’t kill his own daughter,” said Rasansky. “Maybe it was someone else’s daughter that he conveniently walled up in that barn—”
“Then why were no baby girls that age reported missing?” broke in Larkin. “And how would Annie Lebow have known that when she met up with him again?”
“She kept her own counsel, Annie,” Babcock replied. “She might have known all sorts of things she didn’t put down on paper.” He tapped the report on Larkin’s desk with the pencil end. “And if he had nothing to do with her death, why did he lie about knowing her when he was first questioned?”
“That’s easy enough,” said Gemma. “If he’d been in trouble with the law before, especially if he and his wife were unjustly accused, he’d not want to call attention to himself. That’s understandable.”
Babcock looked at the two women, wondering why they seemed to be defending a man Gemma had not even met. “Well, he’s going to regret it,” Babcock said crossly. He dropped the pencil on the desk and watched it bounce, his visions of an easily solved case evaporating. “We’re going to talk to him again.” Turning to Rasansky, he added, “Kevin, I’ll need you to stay here to liaise with the fraud team. I’m not giving up on Dutton yet.” Then, to Larkin,
“Sheila, you’ve met Wain; you’d better come with me.” He eyed his friend. “And I suppose the two of you want to tag along?”
Kincaid met his eyes with no trace of humor. “Ronnie, I want to see this case solved as much as you do. Maybe more.”
“All right,” Babcock agreed, against his better judgment. It would be a wonder if Wain didn’t make a run for it when he saw four coppers descending on him like storm troopers. “We’ll make a bloody party of it.”
Kincaid realized he’d seen the boat, both on Boxing Day and on the following morning, after Annie Lebow’s murder, but he’d paid no attention other than to notice the trickle of smoke from the chimney.
Now he noticed that it was an old boat, perhaps even prewar, and painted in the traditional style, although it looked as though it had been neglected recently. But a wisp of wood smoke spiraled from a chimney whose brass rings still gleamed, and the scent was sharp on the still, damp air.
They crossed the bridge and stepped down to the towpath single file, with Babcock leading, but when they reached the boat, it was obvious that the four of them couldn’t crowd into the well deck.
Babcock stood back and nodded at DC Larkin. “You’ve met him, Sheila. You make the contact.”
Larkin glanced at him, and whatever passed between them seemed to give her confidence. Although it must have been awkward, with everyone watching, she climbed from the towpath into the well deck nimbly enough, then squared her shoulders and rapped at the cabin door.
“Mr. Wain,” she called out, “it’s DC Larkin. I—” The cabin door swung open before she could say more.
The man who stepped out, blinking in the gray light, was tall and well built, with the sort of musculature that comes from hard physical labor rather than time spent in a gym. His dark hair was
still thick, but flecked with silver, and his cheeks were sunken, his dark eyes hollow, as if he’d suffered a recent illness, or grief.
Yet his stance, as he surveyed them, was defiant, and he answered Larkin brusquely. “I know who you are, Constable. I thought we’d finished our business.”
“So did I, Mr. Wain, until I found out you lied to me.” There was a note of personal injury in Larkin’s voice that made Kincaid think of the way Gemma sometimes made an intense connection with a suspect. “You said you only met Annie Lebow when she scraped your boat,” continued Larkin, “but in fact you knew her very well.”
Kincaid saw the shock ripple through the man’s body, saw him tense with the automatic instinct to flee, then saw him force himself to relax.
“This is my boss, by the way.” Larkin gestured at Babcock, reinforcing her position. “Chief Inspector Babcock. And this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard, and Inspector James.”
At the mention of Scotland Yard, Wain rested his fingertips on the top of the boat’s curved tiller, as if for support, but when he spoke his voice was steady. “I knew her, all right, I’ll admit that. But this is why I didn’t say.” His gaze took in all the gathered officers, and Kincaid thought he saw a flash of recognition as his eyes passed over Gemma, but the man didn’t acknowledge it. “I knew, when I heard she was dead, that you’d pick me out. I’ve had dealings with the police before.
I know you lot go for the easiest target, and you don’t care about the truth.”
“Why don’t you try me and see,” said Larkin, resolute as a bull terrier. “What did you argue with Ms. Lebow about on Christmas Day?”
“I don’t know any Lebow. She was Annie Constantine to me. I hadn’t seen her in years, since she got the case against us dismissed.
That day, I think she was as surprised to see me as I was to see her.