Read Online Water Like a Stone by Deborah Crombie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah Crombie
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occasion when she had felt so close to him.
Years later, living with her husband in the house she’d inherited from her parents, she’d thought of asking him to go with her to midnight mass at St. Mary’s. Roger, cheerful atheist that he was, would have indulged her, but it was that very indulgence that had made her decide against it. Roger had viewed all her passions with an air of affectionate but slightly amused condescension, and that particular memory had been too precious to taint with ridicule.
Still, after five years of separation, and knowing Roger as well as she did, the temptation to confide in him was strong. She’d wanted to tell him about her encounter with the Wains, about her fears for Rowan Wain’s health. She’d even gone so far as to punch his number into her mobile phone, but at the last minute had disconnected.
It was Christmas Eve. Roger would interpret a phone call as an admission of loneliness, perhaps even an admission of defeat.
Loneliness, yes, but she’d been lonely when they were together, sometimes more than she was now. Defeat, no, not yet, even if she hadn’t found the peace she’d sought in her roving life on the Cut.
The muted throb of a diesel engine signaled the progress of a narrowboat. Looking back towards the basin, Annie saw a light moving low on the water. As the boat entered the aqueduct and glided past her, close enough to touch, the muffled figure at the tiller nodded a silent greeting. Annie watched the boat’s light until it disappeared, then turned back to the glimmering rooftops of Nantwich. She no longer felt so alone.
There was nothing stopping her, she realized, other than a brisk and solitary walk through the streets of the town. She would go to midnight mass at St. Mary’s, and she would celebrate in her own way those things for which she was thankful.
CHAPTER FIVE
Babcock chuckled aloud as he watched his old friend drive away. Having caught the brief, unguarded expression on Kincaid’s usually composed face, he had recognized naked lust for the chase. He felt a surprising satisfaction at having discovered a kindred spirit, rising so unexpectedly from the ashes of his past life.
Brushing at a feather touch of damp on his cheek, he realized it was snowing again. “Sod it,” he said aloud, casting a glance at the sky, which seemed to loom within touching distance. He scrubbed the accumulating flakes from his hair in irritation and set off after his crime-scene techs, his amusement forgotten.
He stopped at the open doorway of the barn, nodding at the constable standing watch. What would be the doorway, Babcock amended, as he could see now that the opening was merely roughly framed. The interior was littered with the debris of construction—a few planks and pails lay scattered about, and a power saw had been propped against the leg of a wooden sawhorse. Near the far wall, a pick had been dropped on the dirt floor, its blade catching the light from the battery-powered lamps.
Clive Travis, his chief forensics officer, stood just inside the door,struggling to get his paper suit on over bulky warm clothing. Travis was a small, lean man who wore his thinning sandy hair pulled back in a ponytail, and whose energetic personality mirrored his whippet-like appearance. Tonight, however, he looked anything but happy, and his fellow officer seemed no more cheerful. Sandra Barnett, the scene photographer, was quick and competent, but always appeared as if she’d rather be doing something else. Tonight, her broad face looked positively funereal.
“So, what do we have here, troops?” Babcock asked. After slipping off his overcoat and handing it to a constable, with a grimace he accepted gloves and another paper suit from Travis. Protecting the evidence from contamination was a bloody waste of time, he was sure, in an old scene that had been openly accessible, but it had to be done. It would be his head on a platter if there was a balls-up, and he hadn’t got
Years later, living with her husband in the house she’d inherited from her parents, she’d thought of asking him to go with her to midnight mass at St. Mary’s. Roger, cheerful atheist that he was, would have indulged her, but it was that very indulgence that had made her decide against it. Roger had viewed all her passions with an air of affectionate but slightly amused condescension, and that particular memory had been too precious to taint with ridicule.
Still, after five years of separation, and knowing Roger as well as she did, the temptation to confide in him was strong. She’d wanted to tell him about her encounter with the Wains, about her fears for Rowan Wain’s health. She’d even gone so far as to punch his number into her mobile phone, but at the last minute had disconnected.
It was Christmas Eve. Roger would interpret a phone call as an admission of loneliness, perhaps even an admission of defeat.
Loneliness, yes, but she’d been lonely when they were together, sometimes more than she was now. Defeat, no, not yet, even if she hadn’t found the peace she’d sought in her roving life on the Cut.
The muted throb of a diesel engine signaled the progress of a narrowboat. Looking back towards the basin, Annie saw a light moving low on the water. As the boat entered the aqueduct and glided past her, close enough to touch, the muffled figure at the tiller nodded a silent greeting. Annie watched the boat’s light until it disappeared, then turned back to the glimmering rooftops of Nantwich. She no longer felt so alone.
There was nothing stopping her, she realized, other than a brisk and solitary walk through the streets of the town. She would go to midnight mass at St. Mary’s, and she would celebrate in her own way those things for which she was thankful.
CHAPTER FIVE
Babcock chuckled aloud as he watched his old friend drive away. Having caught the brief, unguarded expression on Kincaid’s usually composed face, he had recognized naked lust for the chase. He felt a surprising satisfaction at having discovered a kindred spirit, rising so unexpectedly from the ashes of his past life.
Brushing at a feather touch of damp on his cheek, he realized it was snowing again. “Sod it,” he said aloud, casting a glance at the sky, which seemed to loom within touching distance. He scrubbed the accumulating flakes from his hair in irritation and set off after his crime-scene techs, his amusement forgotten.
He stopped at the open doorway of the barn, nodding at the constable standing watch. What would be the doorway, Babcock amended, as he could see now that the opening was merely roughly framed. The interior was littered with the debris of construction—a few planks and pails lay scattered about, and a power saw had been propped against the leg of a wooden sawhorse. Near the far wall, a pick had been dropped on the dirt floor, its blade catching the light from the battery-powered lamps.
Clive Travis, his chief forensics officer, stood just inside the door,struggling to get his paper suit on over bulky warm clothing. Travis was a small, lean man who wore his thinning sandy hair pulled back in a ponytail, and whose energetic personality mirrored his whippet-like appearance. Tonight, however, he looked anything but happy, and his fellow officer seemed no more cheerful. Sandra Barnett, the scene photographer, was quick and competent, but always appeared as if she’d rather be doing something else. Tonight, her broad face looked positively funereal.
“So, what do we have here, troops?” Babcock asked. After slipping off his overcoat and handing it to a constable, with a grimace he accepted gloves and another paper suit from Travis. Protecting the evidence from contamination was a bloody waste of time, he was sure, in an old scene that had been openly accessible, but it had to be done. It would be his head on a platter if there was a balls-up, and he hadn’t got
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