Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

Dusting himself off as he looked round the kitchen, he saw no evidence of occupancy. Had he left the window unfastened, after all? Although at the time he’d thought he was fully capable, he found now that his memory of the night of Vic’s death was patchy at best.

He checked the sitting room, finding it as he’d left it, then Vic’s office, which now showed the same evidence of police thoroughness as had her office at the English Faculty.

Quietly mounting the stairs, he methodically eliminated first the spare bedroom, then Vic’s room. He stood in the hall, aware of the beating of his heart, aware he was postponing the obvious choice till last, so afraid was he of failure. Taking a steadying breath, he eased open the door to Kit’s room.

After the dimness of the corridor, he was blinded by the light from the uncurtained window. He stood for a moment, blinking, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw the bed was empty, the duvet unwrinkled. His heart sank. He’d been wrong, and the time spent coming here could not be recovered.

Then just as he turned away, he heard a sound-a rustle, and a very faint thumping. He stopped, listening, and as it came again he was able to pinpoint it. Slowly, he crossed the room and edged round the end of Kit’s bed, until he could see into the space between the bed and the wall. A small, shaggy dog lay on a crumpled quilt, head on its paws as it looked alertly at him, while its tail gently thumped the floor.

And beneath the quilt lay Kit, eyes closed, one arm thrown over his head as if he’d been dreaming. He was still wearing his anorak, and his chest rose and fell in a deep and regular rhythm as he breathed through his open mouth.

The wave of giddiness that swept through Kincaid made his knees suddenly weak. He sat down on the bed and reached out to pat the dog, which thumped its tail a bit harder. “Some watchdog you are,” he said with a laugh that sounded suspiciously shaky, and at the sound of his voice Kit stirred and opened his eyes. Kincaid saw the beginning of a smile as Kit recognized him, then alarm as he realized he’d been discovered.

Kit pushed himself up, trying to escape the entangling folds of the quilt and the dog’s weight on his legs. “I’m not going back,” he said as he managed to free himself.

“Hullo, Kit.” Kincaid smiled at him. “What on earth are you doing down there?”

Squatting now, Kit leaned back against the wall and regarded him with a puzzled expression. After a moment, he said, “Hiding. I thought if they came for me, they might not think to look behind the bed. I told Tess to be quiet.”

“She’s a very well-behaved dog. It was only her tail wagging that gave you away. Why did you call her Tess?”

Kit reached out to stroke the dog. “Because I found her behind the Tesco.”

“Oh, of course,” said Kincaid. “Silly of me not to twig. Have either of you had anything to eat?”

“Beef burgers. The second lorry driver bought us both beef burgers. But that was a long time ago.”

“I take it you hitchhiked your way here, then?” asked Kincaid. Thank God Kit had come through his journey unharmed, but this was not the time to lecture him on the danger of riding with strangers.

“Four lorries,” said Kit with a touch of pride. “We walked from the motorway, though. I was afraid someone I knew might stop if I tried to thumb it.”

“I’ll bet you’re hungry again,” Kincaid said easily. “There’s a cafe not far from here on the motorway. What do you say I buy you a real lorry driver’s fry up? We’ll get something for Tess, too.”

Kit tensed and gathered the dog to him. “I told you, I’m not going back to Reading. If you try to make me, I’ll just run away again.”

Watching the stubborn set of Kit’s mouth, Kincaid wondered if he looked like that when he dug his heels in over something. Like father, like son . And if that were the case, the best way to win the boy’s cooperation was to treat him as honestly as he would like to be treated himself. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I understand how you feel, Kit, but you’ve got to be reasonable about this. You know you can’t stay here on your own-”

“My dad will come back. I know he will, and then I can stay-”

“That may be true, but in the meantime, you can’t stay here for more than a few hours before someone else comes looking for you-either the police or your grandparents. And you know your grandfather’s frantic. You don’t want him worrying about you.”

“She won’t care what’s happened to me. All she cares about is her bloody carpets.”

Kincaid sighed. “Does that make your grandfather’s feelings any less important?”

Kit stared at him, then his mouth relaxed and he gave a little shrug. “I suppose not. But I can’t go back. They won’t let me keep Tess.”

“I promise you we’ll try to work something out. And I promise I won’t do anything without discussing it with you first. But we have to start somewhere, and it seems to me that breakfast is a pretty good beginning. What do you say?”

For a long moment, Kit didn’t respond, then he gave an infinitesimal nod and said, “What happened to your eye?”

Once seated in the clean anonymity of the Little Chef, Kincaid and Kit ordered eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, and fried bread, to be washed down with a pot of tea. They’d left Tess in the car with the small blanket Kit had found for her, and she settled down to wait with the resignation of a dog accustomed to it.

At the cottage Kit had washed his hands and brushed his hair, then gathered his things up without further complaint. When he was ready, he’d produced a spare key from the drawer in the kitchen.

“Did I not latch the window?” Kincaid had asked, still a bit concerned over his lapse.

“The lock doesn’t quite catch,” said Kit. “You wouldn’t have noticed. But I always get in that way when I forget my key. It makes Mum fur-” He’d stopped, stricken, and Kincaid had hustled him out of the cottage with an arm round his shoulders.

This time Kincaid kept the key, and they had driven to the Little Chef in silence.

Their tea arrived, hot and strong, and as they stirred their cups, Kincaid glanced at his watch and pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. “I’m going to ring Gemma and ask her to let your granddad know you’re all right. No, wait,” he added as Kit started to protest, “that’s all for now. We’re going to take this one step at a time. Fair enough?”

Kit gave him a nod, and Kincaid wished he were really as confident as he was attempting to sound. What he hadn’t told Kit was that he didn’t know what to do next. The only thing of which he felt sure was that returning Kit to his grandparents right now might mean losing him for good.

Dialing Gemma’s number, he filled her in briefly, then said, “Ring Kit’s grandfather and tell him he’s all right, that he’s safe with me. Nothing more. Then give Laura Miller a ring, too, would you, love?”

“What are you going to do?” asked Gemma. “You have no legal right to keep him with you without their permission.”

“I know,” he answered guardedly. “But I don’t see any alternative at the moment.”

There was a pause, then Gemma said, “Bring him here, then, until we figure something out. At least there’s a garden for the dog.”

“Will Hazel and Tim mind?”

“I’ll just go have a word. See you in an hour or two,” she added and rang off.

Kincaid eyed Kit, who had been listening intently in spite of the arrival of his breakfast. “We’re going to visit Gemma for a bit,” he said as he picked up his fork and tucked into his eggs. “Okay with you?”

Instead of answering Kit frowned and said, “I didn’t know you knew the Millers.”