“So what happened with the dishy detective constable?” Kincaid asked.
DCI Ronnie Babcock snorted into his beer so forcefully that he had to wipe his face with the back of his hand. “Dishy? Jesus, Duncan, are you even living in the last century, much less this one? And she better not hear that you ever uttered that, or she’ll probably take out a contract on you.”
Kincaid and his old schoolmate had retired to the Bowling Green, the comfortable pub in the shadow of St. Mary’s Church in the center of Nantwich, and just a short walk from Kincaid’s sister Juliet’s house. Rosemary had rung to say that Hugh was resting well and Kincaid had promised to help her get him settled at home in the morning.
The constable in question was Detective Constable Sheila Larkin of the Cheshire Constabulary, who had been Babcock’s very capable assistant in the case Kincaid and Gemma had become involved in Christmas before last. “I thought you fancied her,” Kincaid said, unperturbed.
“Not everyone can carry off going out with a coworker. And besides,” Babcock said, a little bashfully, “I had a better offer.”
Kincaid raised his glass and clinked it against his friend’s. “I’ll drink to that.” While Babcock might have flirted with DC Larkin, he’d shown real concern for Juliet’s welfare when she was going through a difficult time. It was obvious that concern had blossomed into considerably more. “So do you have any, um, plans?” he asked.
“Don’t tell me you’re going all brotherly and asking what my intentions are towards your sister?” Ronnie sounded only half mocking.
Kincaid shrugged. When Kincaid had shown up for dinner at Juliet’s, Ronnie’s presence had merely confirmed what Kincaid already knew. “Just curious. You two seem well suited. And Juliet deserves some joy in her life.” Kincaid felt awkward, afraid he’d crossed the line into maudlin.
But Ronnie said, quite seriously, “We’re just taking things slowly. We’ve both been through hard divorces and Juliet’s been through worse than that. The kids don’t need any big changes for a while, either.” He grinned. “Just getting to the point where I could officially spend the night was milestone enough.”
“That’s probably more than I want to know,” Kincaid said, laughing.
“How’s your Gemma, then?” asked Babcock.
Gemma, Kincaid remembered, had been so taken with Ronnie Babcock that he’d felt a spark of jealousy. “She’s fine. Busy.” He’d rung her from Juliet’s before dinner, and while she’d obviously been relieved to hear that Hugh was doing well, she was just as obviously unhappy with him for not telling her sooner. He’d try her again that night, but first he wanted to talk to Ronnie. The problem was, he didn’t know where to start.
“Are you okay?” asked Ronnie, frowning at him. “You’re not having an affair, are you?”
“Bloody hell, Ronnie.” Kincaid stared back, horrified. “Of course not. What made you think that?”
“You’ve had that distracted look all night. Checking your watch, checking your phone.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Kincaid said, shaking his head. “My boss—my former boss—is in hospital. I was hoping for news.”
“He’s ill, then?” Ronnie had relaxed, his expression sympathetic again.
“No. Well, not exactly.” Kincaid told Ronnie first about the attack on Denis, then about Denis’s odd behavior since the autumn. “The investigation into the murder of a female senior officer—a rower—led us to uncover years’ worth of wrongdoing by a recently retired deputy assistant commissioner, Angus Craig. Then, we found that the DAC had raped and killed another senior female police officer.
“My guv’nor, Denis, had us hold off overnight making the arrest.” Kincaid could feel himself beginning to sweat, although the evening was cool and the pub windows were open to the breeze. He cleared his throat. “In the early hours of the next morning, Craig, and his wife, were found dead, shot, their house burned around them.”
“Murder/suicide?” asked Ronnie.
“All the hallmarks. I felt Denis was culpable because he held off on the arrest.”
Kincaid was suddenly aware of the sounds in the pub, the murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses. Had he been speaking too loudly? No one at the nearby tables seemed to have taken any notice. But Ronnie Babcock was watching him intently, a slight frown on his prematurely creased face.
“And then what happened?” Ronnie asked.
“That was my last case before I took leave to look after Charlotte.” They had talked about Charlotte at dinner with the children. He’d shown them photos, and Juliet had made him promise to bring the whole family for a visit when the boys started their summer break. He drank a little of his beer and went on. “When I came back to the Yard, my office had been cleared out and there was a transfer letter on my desk, signed by Denis. I was reassigned to the murder team at Holborn Station. And Denis was unreachable. There was no explanation. I thought”—he grimaced—“I thought it was a punishment for questioning his judgment. I was furious. But . . .” He’d got to the part that no one but Gemma knew, and he was reluctant, now that he’d come to it, to go on.
But Ronnie just watched him steadily, and in some small part of his mind Kincaid thought, Good copper. Silence was the unfailing interview technique, and in the face of it he at last went on.
“On Saturday, I found out Denis was back at the Yard. I tried to see him. Then he texted me, asking me to meet him at a pub in Holborn that night. He said he’d been away for health reasons, and that there were certain people in the Yard who wished him ill. He said he transferred me for my own good, so that I’d have less association with him. And he told me to keep my nose out of things if I knew what was good for me.”
“A bit dramatic,” Ronnie ventured, but his expression didn’t display skepticism.
“So I thought. But a few minutes after he left me that night, he was attacked and left for dead.” Kincaid grasped his pint in both hands. “I haven’t told anyone except Gemma that I met him that night.”
“And he’s—”
“Unconscious. Induced coma. They’re not sure if he’ll recover.”
“But you don’t think it was random?”
“No, I don’t believe it was a random mugging. Nothing was taken. If some schoolgirls hadn’t happened upon him, he’d have died.”
“Coincidence, then?” Ronnie asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. But if it wasn’t, and someone saw him meeting me . . .” Looking down, Kincaid realized his pint was empty. But when Ronnie mimed a refill, he shook his head, wanting his wits about him.