Dreaming of the bones

by Deborah Crombie

  “Duncan? It’s Alec Byrne here.” The reception was poor and Byrne’s voice faded tinnily in and out. “Sorry about the… it’s this bloody mobile phone. There, that’s better,” he said, coming in more clearly. “Listen, Duncan…”

  Byrne sounded hesitant, almost diffident. Amused, Kincaid said, “What’s the matter, Alec? Did you change your mind about the Lydia Brooke case?”

  “No. Listen, Duncan, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Kincaid brought the front legs of his chair back to the floor with a thump. “What are you talking about, Alec?” He couldn’t remember Byrne having a penchant for bad jokes.

  “I happened to be in Control when the call came through, so I came myself. I recognized the name from our conversation the other day. You said your ex-wife was called Victoria McClellan?”

  Kincaid knew the drill too well. His heart jerked in sudden fear. “What do you mean was, Alec?”

  “I’m sorry, Duncan. She’s dead. The medics say probable heart attack. There was nothing they could do.”

  The room receded oddly and he heard a buzzing in his ears. Byrne’s voice came distantly to him, then the words seemed to assemble themselves into something that made sense.

  “Duncan, are you all right?”

  “There’s been a mistake, Alec,” he managed to say against the weight pressing on his chest. “It must be a different Victoria McClellan-”

  “An English lecturer living in Grantchester?” Byrne said with reluctant certainty. “I’m sorry, mate, but I thought you should know. Can you tell me how to contact her hus-”

  It couldn’t be. Byrne was wrong, there must be some silly mistake, Kincaid thought, but he heard himself saying, “I’m on my way.” Byrne’s voice still came faintly from the handset as he replaced it in the cradle.

  Struggling into his jacket in the corridor, he ran full tilt into Chief Superintendent Childs.

  “Been sneaking out to the pub?” said Childs, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. Then, as he looked into Kincaid’s face, “I say, Duncan, are you all right? You’re white as a sheet, man.”

  Kincaid shook his head and pulled away from Childs’s restraining fingers. “Have to go.”

  “Wait, lad.” Childs reached for him again with a hand the size of a ham, and it was the sheer bulk of him that finally made some impression on Kincaid’s dazed mind. “Tell me what’s up,” Childs said. “You can’t just go haring off like that without a word.”

  “It’s Vic,” Kincaid managed to say. “My wife… ex-wife. They say she’s dead. I’ve got to go.”

  “Where?” Childs asked, to the point as always.

  “Cambridgeshire.”

  “Where’s Gemma? You don’t look fit to drive.”

  “I’m all right. I’ll be all right,” Kincaid repeated as he slipped from his superior’s grasp like a footballer evading a tackle and dodged his way towards the lift.

  Even in his shock, he realized his chief was right. He had no business driving the Midget at high speeds in bad weather, so he took the best car available from the pool, a late model Rover with a powerful engine.

  All the way to Cambridge he repeated his litany of disbelief to the rhythm of his tires on the motorway’s wet tarmac. It couldn’t be Vic. Vic couldn’t die of a heart attack, for God’s sake-she was too young. It couldn’t be Vic.

  Some small rational voice in his head reminded him that he and Vic both were getting near forty, they weren’t all that young. And a few months ago, the wife of one of his mates, younger even than Vic, had died suddenly of an aneurysm.

  All right, it happened. Of course it happened. But not to him. And not to Vic.

  His armor began to weaken as he reached the Grantchester turn-off. He clamped his hands tighter on the wheel to stop them from trembling, and tried not to think at all.

  He saw the blue flash of the emergency lights as he made the turn into the High Street. Two patrol cars were parked up on the curb in front of Vic’s cottage, but there was no sign of an ambulance. Kincaid pulled the Rover up into the graveled drive and stopped it where he had parked on Sunday. On Sunday, he thought, Vic had been fine on Sunday.

  Slowly now, he got out of the car and shut the door. His knees felt insubstantial as he stepped deliberately onto the gravel, and he took a breath to clear the sudden swimming in his head. Vertigo. What a solid word for such an unanchored feeling. The door opened and a dark form appeared, silhouetted against the light. Vic. No, not Vic. Alec Byrne, crunching across the gravel to meet him.

  Byrne reached him, touched his arm. “Duncan. There was no need for you to come all this way. We’ve everything in hand.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I’m afraid they’ve taken her to the morgue,” Byrne said gently. “The medics pronounced her dead on scene.” He searched Kincaid’s face. “Come on. We’d better get you a cup of tea.”

  Morgue. No, not yet. He wasn’t ready to think of it, not yet.

  Kincaid allowed himself to be led into the house, then through to the sitting room, while the detached part of his mind commented on how odd it was to be the one ministered to. Byrne directed him to sit on the sofa, and a constable brought him hot, sweet tea. He drank it obediently, thirstily, and after a few moments his mind began to function again.

  “What happened?” he asked Byrne. “Where was she? You’re sure it was-”

  “Her son found her in the kitchen when he came home from sports. Unconscious, or perhaps already dead-we can’t be sure.”

  “Kit?”

  “You know the boy?” asked Byrne. “We’ve not been able to contact the father, and he ought to have someone with him he knows.”

  Kit, dear God. He hadn’t even thought of Kit. And Kit had found her. “Where is he?”

  “In the kitchen with Constable Malley. I believe she’s made him some tea as well.”

  “In the kitchen?” Kincaid repeated, and all the things he’d pushed out of his mind came rushing back. Lydia Brooke found dead in her study, of apparent heart failure. A suicide note that wasn’t. Candles and music and gardening clothes. He stood up. “You’re not treating it as a crime scene?”

  Byrne looked at him warily. “I really don’t see that it’s necessary, under the circumstances-”

  “You don’t know the circumstances!” Kincaid shouted at him, then made an effort to lower his voice. “Don’t let them touch anything until after the postmortem. God knows what damage has been done already.” His anger came as a relief, making a clean burn through the fog in his head.

  “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.

  “All right. But I’m not staying more than a day. There’s nothing to do, and they won’t even let me watch telly.”

  Kincaid didn’t comment. He remembered the sterile household all too well, and suspected there would be little solace for a grieving child. He led Kit to the bottom of the stairs, and when Kit hesitated, Kincaid said, “I’ll come up in a bit, shall I? See how you’re doing.”

  He watched Kit disappear up the staircase, all long legs and big feet from that angle. Then he turned and wandered down the hall into Vic’s office. Almost, he thought to see her turn from her keyboard and smile, and he knew he still hadn’t taken in the undeniable fact of her death. But he could go on pretending, and he could use his eyes to observe and his mind to record, just as he would on any case.

  The room looked odd to him, and he studied it for a moment without touching anything. On Sunday, her desk had been covered with books and papers, but it had had the look of organized clutter, with everything in its proper place. Had she moved the books? One lay facedown on the floor, its pages crumpled. Vic had been almost obsessively neat-surely she would not have left a book like that?

  Unless, said the small, detached voice in his mind, she had begun to feel ill, and knocked the book from its place as she got up to go to the kitchen, perhaps for a glass of water.

  A logical explanation, possibly, but he couldn’t yet allow himself to think of Vic ill, in pain, frightened,
alone. So he ignored the voice, and went on with his examination of her desk. A thick stack of manuscript pages lay beside the computer. He closed his eyes and thought of how it had looked on Sunday-the edges of the pages had been neatly aligned, and now they lay askew. They were also out of sequence, he discovered when he rifled through them. He thought of how much Vic had cared for her book, and he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  He felt suddenly unwilling to leave the manuscript here, untended, and he straightened up, looking for some way to carry it. There, on the floor, an empty leather book satchel-it was, he imagined, what Vic used to carry papers back and forth to work. It would do.

  Carefully, he put the pages into the satchel, then, seized by an urge he didn’t understand, he started on the milk crate file beside the desk. It held the original materials for the biography, letters in a strong hand he didn’t recognize-Lydia’s, of course-notes in Vic’s handwriting, photos, even a few postcards. He put them all into the bag, and anything else that seemed relevant that he could glean from her desktop, and then he carried it all outside and locked it in the boot of the Rover.

  In her office once more, he had a brief look at the computer, but Vic had apparently saved her work on the hard disk rather than a floppy, and he knew he hadn’t time to access the files properly. He’d left Kit alone too long as it was, so he would just have to hope that Vic had been as obsessive about printing hard copy as she had been about everything else.

  He was climbing the stairs when he realized he had not seen the notes he’d given Vic, or the copies of the poems she’d found.

  Kit sat on the edge of his bed, an open grip at his feet. When Kincaid came in, he looked up and said dully, “I don’t know what to take.”

  The room might have been Kincaid’s own at that age, cluttered with books, and sports equipment, and barely outgrown toys. One shelf held a collection of bird’s nests, another of rocks.

  Glancing in the bag, Kincaid saw one jersey and a pair of jeans. “Um, pajamas?” he suggested. “Toothbrush? A dressing gown?”