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to a child like that…”
    “I know. It means none of them is safe.” It occurred to him then that he didn’t know his niece at all, that he couldn’t begin to guess whether or not she was at risk. “Is Lally all right? I’m sure it was very upsetting for her.”
    “I don’t know. The school provided counseling for those who wanted it, but I’m not sure if she went. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. But she’s seemed different the last few weeks, more withdrawn.” Juliet sighed. “Maybe it’s just her age. I suppose I was difficult at fourteen, too.”
    “Worse than difficult,” he said, teasing. If he had hoped for an answering smile, he was disappointed. Juliet flashed him a look he couldn’t read, then yanked her gloves on again and huddled deeperinto her jacket.
    Why was it, Kincaid wondered, that he always managed to put his foot wrong with his sister?
     
    Ronnie Babcock felt his adrenaline start to pump as he backed out of his drive. As glad as he was of any excuse to avoid his own company, he’d expected nothing more exciting than an alcohol-fueled domestic, or perhaps a burglar taking advantage of someone away for the holiday. Certainly when his phone rang he hadn’t imagined the interred body of a child—at the least a suspicious death, at the most a homicide.
    He forced himself to slow the powerful BMW. It was still snowing and the roads would be growing treacherous. Although he liked to drive fast, he was careful of his car—God help anyone who put a nick or dent in the Black Beast, as he liked to call it. He’d bought the 320 used after Peggy had walked out, and if there were whispered comments about the male menopause around the station, he didn’t care. He’d been a poor kid, and to him the car represented everything he’d never thought he could achieve.
    Not that he thought of himself as middle-aged, mind you. As he slowed for the A51 roundabout, he tightened the knot in his tie and glanced at himself in the driving mirror. At forty-one, his hair was still thick, springing from the widow’s peak on his brow, and if there were a few gray threads mixed with the blond, they didn’t show. He’d kept his footballer’s physique, too, as well as the broken nose and the scar across his cheek where a football boot had caught him full in the face. His rather battered visage often came in handy in the interview room, and he liked to think there were women—his ex-wife notwithstanding—that found it attractive.
    The traffic was lighter than he’d expected, and he had an easy shot of it to the location of the call, skirting the north side of Nantwich on the A51. At the Burford roundabout the A51 turned north,towards Chester, and the visibility dropped to near nil in the blowing snow. He crawled along, swearing under his breath, thinking about the logistics of getting the crime-scene unit out in this weather. From the brief report he’d been given, he wasn’t sure if the actual site of the corpse was sheltered from the elements.
    His swearing increased in volume as he saw the turning too late to negotiate it. He had to drive another mile into Barbridge before he could find a place to turn the car, and this time he crept back towards the farm track at a snail’s pace. His moment of triumph was short-lived, however, when he discovered he couldn’t even see which way the track turned. Nor was the high-powered BMW designed for driving in accumulating snow on unpaved roads. He coasted to a stop, wondering if he was going to have to get out and leg it the rest of the way with the help of a torch. His overcoat was lightweight; his shoes were new and expensive and would be soaked through in minutes.
    Then, as he checked the batteries in the torch he kept in the door pocket, the curtain of white surrounding his car began to thin. After a moment, it was once more possible to pick out individual flakes, and then there were only a few solitary, erratically drifting crystals.
    Babcock suspected the