Larkin said as Babcock followed her down the towpath. “Is the sergeant on his way?” “Oh, he’s on his way. Just not here.” Babcock edged round a dip filled with standing water, glad he had made the decision to change into boots. It was cold as well, as the porcelain-blue sky of early morning had begun to haze over and a sharp west wind stirred the tops of the hedgerows. When Larkin cast a surprised glance over her shoulder, he added, “I’ve sent him to oversee a deconstruction crew at the dairy barn. I think we had better make sure there are no more bodies in those walls. And I’ve put in a request for the equipment we need to scan the floor.” “Bugger,” Larkin commented succinctly. “Your Mrs. Newcombe will have a coronary. The sarge is probably not too happy, either.” “I suspect it wouldn’t have been Sergeant Rasansky’s first choice, but it needs to be done.” Babcock wanted to see how Larkin handled herself on a major case.
