Babcock had worked that case, and remembered it all too well.
The natural parents had lashed out at everyone involved in a fury made all the more vicious by the fact that they, too, had failed their child. No wonder Annie Constantine had felt a need for atonement.
“Her determination paid off,” Elsworthy continued. “Eventually, she found corroboration, both from witnesses who had seen the seizures and in hospital records that the doctor reporting the suspected abuse had somehow missed. She got the case dismissed.”
“So how does all this tie in with what happened these last few days?” asked Babcock.
“Chance,” said Elsworthy. “It was pure chance that she motored past the Wains at the Middlewich Junction on Christmas Eve. It’s surprising, I suppose, that she hadn’t run into them before. The waterways are a fairly self-contained world.
“She spoke to them, and although the children seemed well, she thought Rowan looked really ill. The more she thought about it, the more concerned she became. It was when she went back that she and Gabriel had the row, but in the end he agreed to let her see Rowan, who had worsened even in that short time. Annie became convinced that Rowan would let herself die from an untreated illness rather than expose her family to the system again. That’s when she came to me, asking me to examine Rowan, off the record.”
“And was she right? About Rowan’s illness?”
Elsworthy sighed and lowered her voice, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “Unfortunately, she was more than right. Rowan Wain is suffering from advanced congestive heart failure. She might have been helped, if it had been caught early, but even then she would s
have had to agree to a transplant. Now it’s much too late for that, even were she willing.”
Babcock digested this. “So Rowan Wain really is dying?”
“Yes. All I can do is make her a bit more comfortable. I promised Annie Constantine I would do that, and that I would treat Rowan without calling in the authorities. Then, when Annie was killed, I felt I had to honor my obligation, both to her and to Rowan . . .”
It was, Babcock suspected, as close to an apology for her behavior as he was going to get. “And when you heard Annie Constantine had been murdered, you never thought Gabriel Wain might be involved? ”
“No! Why would Gabriel Wain want to harm Annie? He owed her his family, and more.”
“What if Annie discovered he was connected with the infant we found in the barn?”
“Gabriel?” The doctor’s voice rose in astonishment.
“He did mortar work in the dairy not long before the Smiths sold the place. We’ve narrowed the time frame for the interment to between five and ten years, so it would fi t.”
“I don’t believe it,” Ellsworthy said with utter commitment. “I don’t believe Gabriel Wain could have murdered a child. It’s bound to be coincidence, Chief Inspector, just as it was coincidence that Annie met the family again on Christmas Eve.”
And coincidence that two days later she was dead, he thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. There was no use preaching to the converted. Instead, he asked, “Doc, did Annie Constantine say anything to you about the child in the barn? Or you to her?”
“No, she didn’t mention it. And neither did I,” she added, sounding incensed that he should question her discretion, as if she hadn’t violated a half dozen ethical rules in the last few days.
“One more thing, Doc,” he said lightly, as if it were of no great import. “Do you have the children?”
The silence on the other end of the line was so profound that for
a moment he thought she had severed the connection. Then he heard her draw in a breath. “Yes. Yes, I have the children. I though it best, under the circumstances.” She hesitated again, then said quietly,
“Ronnie, leave them be. And promise me that if you feel you must take Gabriel Wain in for questioning, you’ll let me know. Someone needs to stay with Rowan.”
“If you’ll make me a promise, Doc,” he returned, unable to imagine calling her by her first name. “Tell me the truth from now on.”
He’d just rung off when he heard a tap on his door and Sheila Larkin peered in. “Got a minute, Guv?” When he nodded, she came in and sat demurely in his extra chair. She was dressed rather sensibly again today, in trousers and a warm jumper. A good thing, he supposed, especially as they’d stood around on the freezing towpath for half an eternity, but he found he missed watching her struggle to sit in a short skirt without revealing her knickers. “So has our doc gone completely off the rails, then?” she asked with relish.
“She had her reasons,” he said, surprising himself. “And they’re mine to know,” he added, putting Larkin firmly in her place, then grinned. “But you can run down a couple of things for me.”
“Yes, sir, Guv’nor, sir.” Larkin saluted.
“I want you to find out anything you can about the doctor who filed the MSBP allegations against Rowan Wain. And then I want you to find out what happened to the parents of the little boy who was beaten to death by his foster father.”
Babcock was treating Kincaid and Gemma to the dubious pleasure of a late lunch at the Subway shop near the Crewe railway station when his phone rang. It was Rasansky, sounding jubilant.
“Preliminary from the fraud lads says you were right, Guv,” he said. “They’ve just reviewed the Constantines’ files and a few others, but it looks as though Dutton has been skimming. It’s certainly enough to have another word.”
Surveying the remains of his chicken breast on Parmesan bread, Babcock bundled it into its wrapper and tossed it into the nearest bin. “I’m on my way. Meet me there, and bring a couple of uniforms along for backup, just in case.”
“What’s happened?” Kincaid asked even before Babcock had disconnected. “Is it Wain?”
“No.” Babcock couldn’t resist a smile. “It’s Piers Dutton. It seems your sister was right.” He watched the emotions chase each other across his friend’s face—first satisfaction, then dismay as he realized the implications. “And no,” he continued, forestalling what he knew would come next, “you can’t come with me to interview him, either of you. You’ll just have to trust Cheshire CID to manage.”
Kincaid’s struggle not to argue was visible, but he was too experienced an officer not to know the difficulties his direct involvement could cause.
Gemma, Babcock saw, had shown no pleasure at Juliet Newcombe’s vindication. She listened without expression, all the while carefully folding the paper wrapper round her barely touched food.
“Why don’t the two of you wait for me at the station?” he suggested. “You can help Larkin with the files. Just don’t let her boss you around too much,” he added. “She’ll be insufferable if she thinks she can lord it over two detectives from the Big Smoke.”
Piers Dutton had stopped protesting the ransacking of his office. He stood in the reception area, watching tight-lipped as uniformed officers carried out the remainder of his files in boxes, and didn’t acknowledge Babcock’s entrance with so much as a blink.
“Sorry about the inconvenience,” Babcock said cheerfully. “Moving is always so disruptive, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Dutton?”
Dutton compressed his lips further, but the silent riposte wasn’t
in his nature, and after a moment he gave in to the temptation to retort. “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor, Chief Inspector. And don’t think you won’t regret this.”
“I’m surprised your solicitor isn’t here already. Have a bit of trouble running him down?”