Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

“Look, Duncan,” Byrne said, standing to face him. “I realize you’re upset, but this is not your jurisdiction, and I’ll handle a routine death in the way I see fit-”

Kincaid stabbed a finger at him. “What if you’re wrong, Alec? Can you afford to be wrong?”

They stared at each other, both flushed, then after a moment Byrne relaxed and said, “All right. I’ll humor you. After all, what do I have to lose?”

“I’m going to see Kit,” said Kincaid. “And you can keep everyone else out of the bloody room.”

Kit sat huddled in the near kitchen chair, his back to Kincaid, while a female constable occupied the other.

“We’ve notified the grandparents,” Byrne said in Kincaid’s ear as they stood in the doorway. “They’re on their way.”

“Vic’s parents?”

“Yes. Her mother was quite… distraught.” Byrne jerked his head at the constable and she rose, coming to join them. “We’ll wait for you in the sitting room,” he said to Kincaid, and they went out, closing the door behind them.

The room looked ordinary, domestic, unmarred by what had happened in it. Kincaid walked round the small table and slid into the chair the constable had vacated. “Hullo, Kit.”

The boy looked up. “You came,” he said with a sort of distant puzzlement, and so blank was his face with shock that Kincaid wasn’t sure he’d have recognized him had he passed him on the street.

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t wake her,” Kit said, as if continuing a conversation. “I thought she was asleep, but I couldn’t wake her. I rang nine-nine-nine.” The cup of tea before him was untouched.

“I know.” Kincaid reached out and felt the cup; it was cold. He took it and poured the contents down the sink, then set about making fresh cups for them both. Kit watched him without interest.

When the kettle boiled, Kincaid ladled a generous amount of sugar into Kit’s tea and added enough milk to cool it to drinkable temperature. He returned to the table with both cups and pushed Kit’s across to him. “Drink your tea.”

Kit lifted the cup with both hands and drank it without stopping, like a small child. Kincaid watched him, waiting, and after a few moments a little color returned to his cheeks.

“You had sports after school today?” Kincaid asked, sipping his own tea.

Kit nodded. “Running. I’m going for the five hundred meter.”

“Do you walk home?”

A negative shake. “Too far. I ride my bike, most days.”

“What time did you get home today?” The questions came out of habit, a need to lay the details out like a grid, perhaps to build a framework that would support them both.

“Fiveish. The usual.”

“Tell me what happened next.”

Kit moved his feet restively. “She wasn’t in her office, so I looked in the sitting room. We started Monopoly yesterday, and she promised we’d play when I got home.”

Kincaid had seen the game without registering it, pushed to one side of the sitting room table. “And then what?” Gently, gently, but he must know .

No response. The silence stretched so long that Kincaid thought he’d lost his tenuous link with the boy, then Kit said, violently, “They didn’t believe me.”

“Didn’t believe what?” Kincaid asked, frowning.

“I saw someone. I came in the kitchen… looked out the window. Before I saw-” His glance skittered away from Kincaid’s.

Kincaid knew what he couldn’t say. “What did you see before that? When you looked out the window?”

“A shape. A dark shape. By the gate at the bottom of the garden. Then I didn’t think of it again.”

Kincaid’s pulse quickened. “Man shape or woman shape?”

“I don’t know.” For the first time, Kit sounded close to tears. “It was too quick, just a flash. But I saw it. I know I did. Why won’t they listen to me?”

“I believe you,” Kincaid said with growing conviction.

Kit met his eyes. “You do?”

The door opened and Byrne looked in, motioning for Kincaid to join him.

“I’ll be right back,” Kincaid said to Kit, and went out into the corridor.

“There’s nothing more we can do here tonight,” said Byrne. “Would you be willing to wait for the grandparents?”

No, Kincaid thought, dealing with Vic’s parents was not an obligation he’d take on willingly, but he couldn’t see leaving Kit, either. “All right,” he said. “I’ll wait. Alec, you didn’t tell me Kit said he saw someone in the garden.”

Byrne shrugged. “He was incoherent, poor kid. Imagining things.”

“He’s not incoherent now. And he’s a reliable kid, Alec. You had better get the crime scene lads out there at first light.” Seeing Byrne start to bristle, he added, “Just in case. It always pays to cover your arse, Alec, just in case. And bloody hope it doesn’t rain between now and then.”

After a moment, Byrne said grudgingly, “All right. And I’ve rung the pathologist, but he says he can’t get to the PM till tomorrow afternoon. Do you want to attend?”

Kincaid shook his head, said harshly, “No.” Not that, not yet It didn’t bear thinking of.

“Sorry,” said Byrne. “Tactless of me. Listen, Duncan, I really am sorry about all of this.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I’ll ring you after the PM.”

Kincaid, finding the words lodged in his throat, nodded his assent.

“We still haven’t a clue as to how to contact the husband. Do you think you could get something out of the boy? Or her parents? We’ll try his college in the morning.” Byrne grimaced. “Bloody nuisance.”

They made arrangements about the keys and the closing of the house, then Byrne took himself off with poorly concealed relief. Kincaid watched him drive away, followed by the other officers, then went slowly back into the house.

In the kitchen, Kit sat as if he hadn’t moved at all since Kincaid had left him. Without speaking, Kincaid made a quick search of the provisions. He found bread in the bin and cheese in the fridge, and within a few minutes had put together a cheese sandwich with butter and pickle. He’d touched as little as possible, making do with a small paring knife from the drawer and a paper towel from the roll under the cabinet. They had already contaminated the scene, but he saw no point in making it worse.

He set the sandwich before Kit and sat down opposite. “I know you think you can’t possibly eat,” he said. “But it’s important that you do. Give it a try.”

For a moment, Kit looked as if he might protest, then he raised the sandwich to his mouth and took a listless bite. He chewed mechanically at first, then he seemed to realize he was hungry and wolfed down the rest. “I hate pickle,” he said when he’d finished the last crumb.

“Sorry.” Kincaid smiled. “I’ll do better next time.”

“Are you staying?” asked Kit, a spark of hope in his eyes.

Shaking his head, Kincaid said, “Only until your grandparents come for you.”

“I won’t go,” Kit said vehemently. “I hate them. I want to stay here.”

Kincaid closed his eyes and wished desperately for Gemma. She would know what to do. She would say, “Come on, love, let’s get your things together,” in her soft, matter-of-fact way. She might even put her arm round Kit, or tousle his hair, but those were things Kincaid did not dare attempt.

He blinked and said, “You can’t stay here, Kit. And as far as I know, your grandparents are your legal guardians until we can contact your father. Have you any idea how to reach him?”

Kit shook his head impatiently. “No, I already told them. He didn’t write to us. Mummy didn’t even have an address for him.”

“We’ll find him,” Kincaid said with more certainty than he felt. “He must have left instructions with his college. But in the meantime, you’ll have to go to Reading with your grandparents, and I doubt you want your grandmother packing for you.” He gave Kit a conspiratorial smile, and after a moment Kit smiled grudgingly back.