Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

“I tried,” she said, looking up at him. “I couldn’t settle.” She pushed herself up from the steps and stood, her face on a level with his. “The Chief told me about Vic, Duncan. I’m so sorry.”

It was then he discovered that her sympathy was the one thing he couldn’t bear, and that any response he might make would threaten his precarious control. Looking away from her, he said, “Let’s go upstairs, why don’t we, and have a drink.”

When they reached the flat, he discovered that Gemma had switched on the lamps and turned up the heating, and when he’d poured them both a small whisky he joined her on the sofa. Sid jumped into his lap, purring as if he’d been gone a week. “Hullo, mate,” he said, stroking the cat’s sleek, black fur. “It’s been a bloody long day, hasn’t it?”

“Tell me what happened,” said Gemma. “I only know what you told Denis.” She’d curled up in the corner of the sofa, feet beneath her, so that she could face him.

He took a sip of his drink, and while his throat still burned from it, he said harshly, “Kit found her in the kitchen when he came home from school. The medics said there was nothing they could do, probable heart attack.”

“Oh, no,” breathed Gemma, shaking her head. “It’s so hard to believe. She seemed so well on Sunday.”

“I don’t believe it, Gemma.” Sid put his ears back, affronted, and Kincaid made an effort to lower his voice. “It’s just too much bloody coincidence.”

Warily, Gemma said, “What are you talking about?”

“If you discount all the suicidal trappings, Lydia Brooke died suddenly and unexpectedly of heart failure, too.”

“But Lydia had a heart condition,” protested Gemma. “Her heart failure was brought on by an overdose of her own medication.”

“And what if the suicide was manufactured? What if someone gave Lydia an overdose of her medication? That’s what Vic suspected, even though she tiptoed round the obvious.”

“But why? Why would someone kill Lydia?”

“That’s what Vic was trying to discover. And I didn’t take her seriously.” Kincaid finally looked at Gemma, and saw the truth of it reflected in her eyes.

“You couldn’t have known,” Gemma said softly, but they both knew it didn’t absolve him. “This is all speculation. And Vic didn’t have a heart condition, did she?”

“Now you’re arguing against yourself. That makes it all the less likely that she would die of heart failure, and it wouldn’t keep an overdose of heart medication from doing the damage.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Gemma admitted. “But you can’t be sure of anything until the toxicology scans come back.”

“Bloody Alec isn’t even treating it as a crime scene.” Kincaid moved restlessly, causing Sid to stir in his lap.

“You can’t very well blame him, under the circumstanc-”

“I can and I will, if the PM results come back positive. It’s sloppy police work, and you know it.” He glared at her, then seeing her expression, said contritely, “I’m sorry, Gemma. I don’t mean to be churlish. It’s just that…”

“Do you want me to go?”

He stood up, dumping Sid unceremoniously to the floor, and went to the French windows. He looked out onto the darkened balcony, and after a moment said, “No. Stay. Please.” Turning to face her again, he asked, “What about Toby?”

“Hazel offered to keep him for the night,” she said, then frowned. “Duncan, what about Kit?”

“That’s another thing.” He came back to the sofa long enough to retrieve his glass, then began to pace. “No one seems to know how to contact his father, so he’s gone to his grandparents.”

“So?” said Gemma, sounding puzzled. “I’d think that would be the best thing.”

“You don’t know them,” he said vehemently, and felt surprised at the bitterness in his voice. “Oh, I suppose you’re right, and I’m letting my dislike of them color my judgment. But Kit was so… desolate.” He cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have let them take him away.”

“Duncan, don’t be absurd. What else could you have done?”

“We keep coming back to that, don’t we? Nothing, nothing, and nothing! But I feel so bloody useless!”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Gemma sighed. “I think I’ll go to bed. Leave you on your own for a bit. All right?”

He nodded. “Sorry, love. I’ll be along soon.”

She came to him and laid her hand lightly against his cheek, then she turned away and went into the bedroom.

Kincaid listened to the click of the door closing, and in the silence that followed he heard the cat begin to purr. Sid had jumped into Gemma’s spot on the sofa, and stood kneading his paws against the warm cushion, his eyes slitted in pleasure.

“You’re easy enough to comfort, aren’t you, mate?” Kincaid asked softly. “Maybe I should take lessons.”

Tipping Gemma’s untouched whisky into his own glass, he went to stand at the window again. He saw his own reflection, distorted by the lights in the house opposite, alien and unfamiliar.

Gemma woke suddenly, her heart thumping in the darkened room. It took her a moment to realize that she was in Duncan’s bed, rather than her own, and that she was alone. He had come to bed, though, for she had a faint memory of the warmth of his body, and she didn’t remember putting out the light.

She’d dreamt she was falling-not floating, but plummeting into some dark abyss, and even recalling the sensation brought a resurgence of panic. Sitting up, she focused on the clock’s glowing red numerals. Half past one. She slipped out of bed and groped for something to put on. Her fingers found his dressing gown, and when she’d fastened it round her and pushed her hair from her face, she went out to look for him.

Kincaid sat in the middle of the sitting room floor, amid a sea of books and papers. He’d changed from his work clothes into jeans and a pullover, and his uncombed hair flopped down onto his forehead.

“What are you doing?” asked Gemma.

He looked up at the sound of her voice. “Couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.” His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion.

“But what’s all this?” Coming to sit on the edge of the coffee table, she leaned down to stroke Sid, who had made himself comfortable on the largest stack of paper.

Kincaid made a vague gesture at the things surrounding him. “Vic’s manuscript. And anything else I could find that seemed to be related to Lydia Brooke.”

“You took Vic’s papers?” said Gemma, shocked into full wakefulness. “But that’s-”

“Interfering with the evidence? Well, I suppose that’s true enough, and I’ll answer to Alec for it if I have to. But in the meantime, I don’t know where to start.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I can separate Vic’s handwriting from Lydia’s in the loose papers, but that’s about as far as I’ve managed. And it will take me days just to read the manuscript,” he added, his frustration evident in his voice.

“Then come to bed, please,” said Gemma. “There’s no point in any of this until you hear the results of the postmortem. You know that. And being exhausted won’t help you deal with whatever comes tomorrow.”