Water Like a Stone by Deborah Crombie Page A

some personal satisfaction in that.
    “We won’t know for sure until the experts have examined the child’s remains,” said Babcock smoothly. He wasn’t about to reveal to the Fosters that the experts’ opinions might not give him a well-defined time frame, nor did he intend them to know how handicapped he was by the lack of that knowledge. “That’s why I need to know if there’s been any activity in the barn in the time you’ve owned it.”
    “Never go down there, myself,” said Foster. “But we see if anyone goes up and down the lane. And we’d see lights if there was any funny business at night.”
    Babcock had surveyed the prospect from their front garden himself, and felt quite sure that the bend in the lane would block any view of lights in the barn. “So you’re saying you haven’t seen anything?”
    The struggle between the desire for importance and the wisdom of noninvolvement was clearly visible in Foster’s face. Caution won out. “No. No, I can’t say as we have.”
    “When exactly did you sell the property to the Bonners?”
    Foster screwed up his already round face in concentration, so that he looked like an overripe plum about to burst. “Must be just on a year, now. After Christmas. Old hulk of a place—we thought sure the Bonners would raze it and build new. And why on earth would they hire an inexperienced girl as a contractor? We said as much, but they paid no heed. Taken leave of their senses, if you ask me.”
    Juliet Newcombe must be in her late thirties, Babcock calculated, and he doubted very much that she would think being referred to as a “girl” a compliment. “Why did they choose Mrs. Newcombe against your advice?” he asked.
    “Referred by his high muckety-muck up the lane,” said Foster, jerking his head towards the Barbridge road. “Dutton. Piers Dutton. Though if you ask me, he’d like you to call him Lord Dutton.”
    “We’ve asked him for drinks a half dozen times. He always has some sort of excuse,” added Mrs. Foster. Babcock felt a twinge ofsympathy for the neighbor, stalked by the social-climbing Fosters, who had undoubtedly been angling for a return invitation and a look at the Victorian manor house.
    Piers Dutton…an unusual name, he thought. Then a gear meshed in his brain and he realized where he had heard it. Piers Dutton was Caspar Newcombe’s partner. Perhaps Dutton had felt more sociable towards the Bonners, and it was only natural that he should recommend his partner’s wife to his new neighbors—although considering that his relationship with the Bonners would be ongoing, he must have had confidence in Juliet’s ability to do the job.
    “And the people who owned the property before you? The Smiths, wasn’t it? If you could give me a contact address for them—”
    “But we haven’t heard from them in years,” said Mrs. Foster. “Have we, Tom?” Babcock pegged her as one of those women who wouldn’t like to say the sun was shining without confirmation from her husband. When Foster nodded in agreement, she went on. “You see, we came along just as they’d put the place on the market. They’d expected to take their time looking for something else, but as it was, they went into rented accommodation—a flat here in Nantwich, I remember. We sent them a Christmas card that first year, but we never heard from them after.”
    “Have you any idea where they meant to go?” asked Babcock. It seemed the simplest things always turned out to be the most difficult.
    “I know they had a grown daughter in Shropshire, but they hadn’t decided what they wanted to do. Only that they’d had their fill of farming, and they’d made enough on the sale of the property to give them a quiet retirement.”
    “If you have the address of the rented flat, perhaps they left forwarding instructions.”
    Mrs. Foster looked stricken. “But I’d not have saved it, not when we didn’t hear from them the next Christmas.”
    “Of course not.” Babcock had