Water Like a Stone by Deborah Crombie

pulled in front of theempty brick hearth radiated waves of a harsh, dry heat that had at least defrosted Babcock’s extremities, even though half blocked by Foster’s considerable bulk. The wife was thin, with a tightly drawn face and hair lacquered a very unnatural shade of red. The sparkling sequined reindeer on her jumper was by far the most cheerful—not to mention the most tasteful—thing in the room. She’d perched on the edge of the sofa, part of a hideous three-piece suite done in peach plush, and kept glancing at the large television hulking in one corner of the room, its sound muted, as if she couldn’t bear to tear herself away.
    Tired of standing around waiting for frostbite to set in while he watched the techies do their jobs, Babcock had decided to call on the previous owners of the barn. He’d gone on his own, intending to give his subordinates the rest of their evening off before the investigation swung into full gear tomorrow, but he’d begun to wish he had brought along a friendly face.
    “I’d very much like to know what’s going on, Inspector,” demanded Tom Foster, as if he had summoned Babcock for an interview. “You lot have been up and down our lane all night, making a muck of things. We’ll be lucky to get our car out in the morning.” His accent was broad Mancunian. Babcock didn’t know about the wife’s, as she hadn’t spoken, even though her husband had included her in his perfunctory introductions.
    “It’s Chief Inspector,” Babcock said mildly, but he didn’t apologize for the inconvenience. “Mr. Foster, I understand that, until recently, you owned the old barn down by the canal.”
    “That’s right,” agreed Foster, his bald head gleaming in the glare of the ceiling light. “Bought the property as an investment five years ago, didn’t we?” If he’d hoped for confirmation from his wife, he was disappointed, as her eyes had swiveled back to the girls in skimpy Santa outfits parading across the telly screen.
    “Figured we couldn’t lose, with the property market going up, and we didn’t, oh no.” Foster allowed himself a satisfied smirk.“Made as much on the sale of the barn and surrounding pasture as we spent on the whole place, including this house. Of course, the house was in a terrible state, and the owners left it full of moldy old bits. Had to call the junkman to haul them off.
    “We’ve done the house up proper since. All the mod cons.” Foster looked round with the pride of a monarch surveying his kingdom.
    Babcock realized he was beginning to grind his teeth, and that he was sweating inside his overcoat. He made a conscious effort to relax his jaw and unfastened the top button of his coat. “Mr. Foster, has the barn been in use since you bought the property?”
    “What’s all this about the barn, Inspector?” Foster’s temporary joviality vanished. “Have those kids been getting into things? I won’t have them crossing my property—I’ve told them often enough—and if they’ve been trespassing down the building site, the Bonners have a right to know.”
    “It’s not kids, Mr. Foster. The builder, Mrs. Newcombe, made a discovery. Someone mortared a baby into the barn wall.”
    In the shocked silence that followed Babcock’s announcement, he heard a faint squeak, like the mew of a distressed kitten. He’d succeeded in removing Mrs. Foster’s attention from the television.
    “What? What did you say?” Foster shook his head as if he had water in his ears.
    “A baby,” whispered Mrs. Foster. “He said they found a baby. How horrible.”
    Babcock relented a fraction. “It’s been there a good while, Mrs. Foster. Perhaps years.” On second thought, he wasn’t sure why the passage of time made the child’s fate any less terrible, but Mrs. Foster nodded, as if he’d said something profoundly comforting. Neither husband nor wife expressed any concern for Juliet Newcombe’s ordeal.
    “Before our time, then.” Foster seemed to find