“No.” Kincaid forced himself to breathe, to meet her eyes. “That was Wesley. It’s Kit. He’s disappeared.”
Chapter Sixteen
And I remember home and the old time, The winding river, the white morning rime, The autumn robin by the riverside, That pipes in the grey eve.
—robert louis stevenson, “The Family”
Kit walked aimlessly for hours, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, his mind playing and replaying the events of the morning. He had been finishing a last-minute piece of toast before school when the phone rang. Wesley had already left with Toby, and he’d assumed it was Wes calling from his mobile phone with a last-minute instruction.
When he’d heard Ian’s voice on the other end of the line he’d whooped with surprise.
“Dad! What are you doing ringing this time of morning? It must be the middle of the night in Canada.” He felt awkward now saying Dad, but what else could he call the man he’d thought of as his father for almost twelve years?
Absently, he tossed the dogs their ball and watched them scramble after it.
“It’s almost two,” said Ian, “a bit late for an old man
like me, I’ll admit.” Kit thought he sounded slightly tipsy.
“But I wanted to catch you before you left for school.”
Kit felt a little clutch of fear, and the last bit of his toast seemed to stick on the way down. “Why? Is something wrong? You know about the letter?”
“Yes, but that’s not why I called, Kit. And nothing’s wrong. In fact, I’ve got some rather good news to share with you. I wanted you to be the first to know.”
Kit’s heart leaped. “You’re coming home? Back to Cambridge?”
“Um, no.” Ian sounded suddenly hesitant. “It looks like I’ll be staying in Toronto permanently. There are two things I had to tell you, actually, Kit. The house in Grantchester finally sold.”
Kit’s throat tightened. It was all he could do to speak.
“That’s . . . good. That’s . . . that’s what you wanted.”
“I know the idea’s going to be a little bit of an adjust-ment for you, but it had to be done. You do understand that, don’t you, Kit?”
“Yeah, of course I do,” Kit said, trying very hard to sound as if he did. The dogs had come back to him, panting, Tess the proud possessor of the ball, but he ignored them.
“I’ve got to make a new life. We both do.” Ian paused again, clearing his throat. “That’s the other thing I was going to tell you. That’s why I was up so late. I’ve been at a party, celebrating my engagement.”
“Engagement?” Kit said blankly. In the moment’s silence, he heard the tick of the kitchen clock, and as he gazed at Gemma’s black and red teapot, the colors swam before his eyes.
“She’s a wonderful girl, Kit. I know you’ll like her.
Melinda—her name’s Melinda—is really looking forward to meeting you. Of course, she is a bit young for me.” Ian gave a chuckle. “But who am I to complain?”
“You’re getting married?”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you.” Ian’s patience sounded forced. “The first of July. Just a small ceremony—”
“How can you be getting married?” Kit shouted, taking it in at last. “Mum’s only been dead a year—”
“Kit! That’s enough,” snapped Ian. “Look,” he went on more gently, “I understand this is a shock, but you know your mother and I hadn’t been on good terms for a while before she . . . died. It’s time for me to move on, concentrate on the living. And this means you’ll have a new home, in Canada, when you come to visit.”
“I don’t want—”
“That’s the other thing, Kit. I know we’d talked about your coming at the end of June, when your term finishes, but Melinda and I will be on our honeymoon. I’m sure we can work something out later in the sum—”
Kit didn’t hear the rest of Ian’s plan because he had, for the first time in his life, hung up on an adult in the middle of a conversation. When the phone rang again, he was walking out the door. It was only after he turned the corner that the insistent burring faded away.
His feet had carried him along the familiar route to school of their own accord, but when he reached the gate he saw that the schoolyard was empty. The bell had rung, and it suddenly seemed to Kit as if walking into an already seated class and explaining his tardiness was a feat as far beyond him as walking on the moon.
He had turned round and gone the other way, back through the quiet streets until he’d reached Notting Hill Gate, and then into Bayswater Road. At some point, he’d taken off his school blazer and stuffed it into his back-pack, for it was warm, and he was aware of the stare of the occasional passerby wondering what a boy his age was doing out of school on a Monday morning.
He kept thinking of some other family living in the cottage in Grantchester, but even though he’d stayed there again with Ian for a few months before moving to London, he couldn’t get a picture in his head that didn’t include his mother.
For an instant, when he’d thought Ian might be coming back, he’d imagined living there again. Not that he wanted to leave Duncan and Gemma and Toby—not at all—but he missed his old school and his friends, especially Colin. He had belonged, and that belonging had been part of him, as were his memories of his life before his mum had died.
Now it seemed Ian meant to take even that away from him. Kit didn’t want another family; he couldn’t bear to see Ian with another woman, a replacement for his mother. Was that why Ian had suggested the paternity test? Did he intend to put the past behind him, so that he could start his new life—his new family—unencumbered by the child he had never thought of as his own?
Kit went on, putting one foot in front of the other automatically, and it was only when he looked up and saw Marble Arch that he realized he’d walked the whole length of Hyde Park. Turning, he looked back at the park, and the sight of the people walking their dogs made him think of Tess with a pang.
But Tess would be all right, he assured himself. Wes would take care of her. He missed her, and Geordie, Gemma’s cocker spaniel, but he could not face going back to the Notting Hill house. He couldn’t sit calmly at the kitchen table and tell Wesley that his dad was getting married again. And what would he say when Duncan called, or Gemma? Even if he didn’t tell them about Ian, he would have to explain why he had missed school, and what sort of excuse could he possibly invent?
A number seventy-three bus barreled by, turning the corner into Oxford Street, on its way to Euston and King’s Cross Station.
King’s Cross. Fumbling in his pocket, Kit pulled out the spending money Duncan had given him for the week and counted it. There was enough—at least for a single ticket, and just now he didn’t care about the return. He wanted only to be someplace familiar, someplace that felt right, someplace where he could think things through.
He set off after the bus at a run.
“It’s our son,” Kincaid explained to Ross. “He seems to have taken advantage of our absence to play truant from school,” he added, trying to make light of it.
“How old is the lad?” Ross asked.
“Twelve.”
“Och, I don’t envy ye, then,” Ross said sympatheti-cally. “It’s a difficult age. Weel, I’ll leave ye to get on with it. I’m sure you’ll turn him up—or he’ll come home of his own accord when he gets hungry.” He got into the car, but as his sergeant began to reverse, he called out to them. “I didna realize the two of you were married. It’s verra confusing these days, what with the women having different names.”
“Of all the—” began Gemma as Ross drove off, then she shook her head. “Never mind. Tell me exactly what Wesley said.”
“He started to get worried when Kit didn’t come home at the usual time. After an hour, he rang one of Kit’s mates at school, the boy he’d been partnering on his science project—his name’s Sean, I think.” He should know this, Kincaid told himself furiously. It was his business to know the
se things. He forced himself to go on. “Sean told Wes that Kit wasn’t in school today at all.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“Not that Wes could find.”
“What about Tess?” asked Gemma. “Did he take Tess?”
Kit seldom went anywhere without the little terrier he had befriended in the days following his mother’s death.
“No. But his school bag is gone, so he must have started out—”
“Oh, God.” Gemma had gone dead white. “You don’t think—someone—”
“No.” Kincaid pulled her to him in a fierce hug. “No, I don’t think anything’s happened to him. I think he was angry with me, and decided at the last minute to do a runner. I’m going to call Laura Miller.”
Laura Miller had worked with Vic in the university’s English faculty, and Laura’s son, Colin, had been Kit’s best friend at school. Kit had stayed with the Millers for several months after Vic’s death and still visited Colin every few weekends.
“Right.” Gemma gave him a shaky smile. “That’s where he will have gone.”
But when Kincaid got Laura on the phone, she said she hadn’t seen Kit since the last time he’d come to visit. She promised to quiz Colin and to ring back if she learned anything.
When he related this news to Gemma he saw the flare of panic in her eyes. “We’ll have to put out a bulletin,”
she said. “If he’s been gone since first thing this morning, he could be anywhere—”
“No, wait.” Kincaid held up a hand as a thought occurred to him. “Let me try one more thing.” This time he rang a Grantchester number. Nathan Winter had been Vic’s next-door neighbor and, briefly, her lover. A Cambridge biology professor, he had encouraged Kit in his love of science, and the two had become friends.
“Hullo, Nathan? It’s Duncan—”
“It’s all right, Duncan,” came Nathan’s familiar deep rumble. “He’s here. I found him down by the river a half hour ago. I’m just taking some tea and sandwiches out to the garden for him—he was ravenous, poor lad.”
Relief left Kincaid’s muscles weak, but the emotion was quickly replaced by a rush of anger. What the hell had prompted Kit to go to Grantchester without telling them? And how was he going to get the boy home, if he couldn’t trust him? Even if he had Nathan put him on the train, he’d no guarantee that Kit would do as he was told. “Put him on the phone, Nathan. I want to speak to him.”
“Duncan, wait. Let him stay with me for a bit, let me talk to him. He wouldn’t have come just on a whim. He muttered something about Ian having rung him this morning—”
“Ian?”
“That’s all I’ve got out of him, so far. But perhaps I can help him sort it out, whatever’s happened. I’ve a light day for tutorials tomorrow, and he can come with me.”
Kincaid thought of the circumstances that had sent Kit running to Grantchester once before. Then, he’d been escaping from his grandmother’s abuse. What could Ian have said to the boy to induce such a response? And if he had been home, would Kit have confided in him, instead of running away?
“All right,” he said to Nathan at last, feeling as if he’d set the seal on his failure. “Perhaps for a day or two, until I can get back. But you should know what’s been going on.” He told Nathan about Eugenia’s latest maneuver.
“I’ve asked Kit to have DNA testing, to put paid to her once and for all, and Ian’s agreed, but Kit won’t consider it. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
“I’ll do my best. Look, I’d better go. He’s coming in from the garden.”
“Okay. Tell him he can stay tomorrow, at the least, and ring me when you’ve had a chance to speak to him. And, Nathan,” Kincaid added, “don’t let him out of your sight.”
Dinner that night was a strained affair. Louise served Gemma, Kincaid, Martin, and Hazel in the dining room, Heather and Pascal having gone to Benvulin for the night.
Everyone seemed preoccupied with his or her own worries. Hazel had at last reached her mother-in-law, Carolyn Cavendish, who had told her that Tim was being questioned by the London police. Louise had not heard anything from John since Chief Inspector Ross had taken him to Aviemore, and both Gemma and Kincaid were concerned about Kit. Since his discussion with Nathan, Kincaid had been trying to ring Ian in Toronto, with no success.
Martin, to his credit, had offered to help Louise in the kitchen, but she’d refused him with a marked lack of gra-ciousness, and he had been glowering at her ever since.
When Louise had set the last bowl of steaming fish stew before them, Hazel said, “Louise, come sit down and join us, please.”
Louise stopped in the doorway, twisting the skirt of her apron in her hands. “Oh, no, thanks. I don’t think I can bear to sit, to tell the truth, not until John’s . . . I’ll just get some more hot bread.” She vanished back into the kitchen.
Gemma felt as if the painted fish swimming round the walls were staring down at her accusingly. With an apologetic nod at the largest trout, she took a bite of her stew and found it much better than she’d anticipated.
“How long can they keep him?” asked Martin, frowning at his soup bowl. “It’s not like they can charge him with anything—can they?” The sudden appeal in his voice made him sound very young.
“I shouldn’t think so,” answered Gemma, “based on what Chief Inspector Ross said.” She leaned forward, catching the fresh green scent of the boughs Louise had placed on the sideboard. “But, Martin, you have to understand that we’re not privy to all the chief inspector’s information.”
“What sort of information?”
“Forensics results, witness reports—”
“You’re saying he may have more evidence against John than he told us? But John can’t have—John wouldn’t—”
“Martin.” Louise had slipped back into the room, un-noticed, a basket of sliced bread in her hand. “Just shut up. You don’t know anything, and you’ll only make things worse by going on about it.”
“Worse?” Martin’s voice rose to a squeak. “How could asking questions possibly make anything worse? Good God, Louise, anyone would think you believed John had done—” He stared at her, his eyes widening. “That is what you think, isn’t it? You actually believe your own husband shot Donald!”
“You’ve no idea what I think.” Louise bit the words off furiously. “And I’m bloody sick and tired of you swan-ning round my house as if you owned it, spouting your opinions, as if anyone actually cared what you thought.
When John gets back—”
“Louise—” began Hazel, but Martin stood, rocking the table and sloshing soup on the tablecloth.
“Right. That’s it. I’m going, and when John gets back, you can explain to him why I left.” Martin brushed by
Louise and stalked out of the room. A moment later they heard his footsteps clattering up the stairs.
“Louise,” said Hazel again, but Louise turned and bolted back into the kitchen.
The other three sat looking at one another for a moment, then Gemma said quietly, “He’s got no place to go.”
“Maybe I should have a friendly word with him.” Kincaid’s offer was given so swiftly that Gemma suspected he’d been looking for an excuse to leave the room and ring Ian again.
When he’d gone out, Hazel dropped her face into her hands. “And I should go talk to Louise,” she said, her voice muffled.
“You’ve enough on your plate just now,” Gemma told her gently. “Give her a minute to cool down and I’ll go in. But in the meantime, I want a word with you.” They hadn’t had a moment alone since Hazel had spoken with Heather in the barn. “Hazel, Heather did tell you—”
“Yes.” Dropping her hands, Hazel looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Have you any idea why Donald left you his shares?”
asked Gemma.
“No.” Hazel shook her head in bewilderment. “Especially considering the way his father felt about me. I’m the l
ast person Bruce Brodie would have wanted in control of his business.”
“Could that have been why Donald chose you?”
“To show his father up? But Bruce has been dead for years.”
“What if he felt his father had ruined his life by driving you away . . . a bit far-fetched, I’ll admit,” Gemma added with a sigh. She thought for a moment. “But what if Donald meant it as a gesture to prove his commitment to your future together? In which case, he must have in-
tended to tell you what he’d done.” Gemma’s heart gave a lurch as she realized where her supposition led. “Hazel, Donald didn’t tell you, did he?”
Hazel looked appalled. “Of course not! You can’t think I knew—”
“No, no. I’m sorry.” Gemma reached across the table and touched Hazel’s hand. “That was stupid of me. But what if Donald told someone else?”
“You think someone murdered him because of it? But why would someone kill Donald because he’d left his shares to me?”
“Is there any way someone could profit from your ownership?” asked Gemma. “What about Heather?”
“No. Heather’s the one who’s lost most over this, after everything she did for him. Only if I—” Hazel looked down at her stew and seemed to focus great concentration on taking a bite.
“What? Tell me what you were going to say,” demanded Gemma.
“Nothing. It was nothing. We should eat,” Hazel added brightly. “The stew’s getting cold.”
“That’s bollocks.” Gemma caught Hazel’s gaze, held it. “If you keep things from me, I can’t help. You do want to find out who killed Donald, don’t you?”
“You know I do.” Hazel shut her eyes, and Gemma saw her shudder, as if she were recalling the sight of Donald’s body. “All right,” she said at last. “It’s just that Heather made me an offer today. She said Pascal’s firm would buy my shares outright, immediately. She said I could just walk away from the whole thing, easy as pie.”
“That’s what she wanted from Donald,” mused Gemma. “But he wouldn’t give it to her. Maybe she thought you’d be an easier mark.”
Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep dk&gj-9 Page 26