Dreaming Of The Bones

“It’s okay.” He smiled. “They say time heals all wounds—well, sometimes it even brings a little wisdom. We both had a lot of growing up to do.” He touched his cheek to hers, an instant’s brushing of damp skin, then turned away.

As he eased the car out of the drive he looked back, saw her still standing motionless behind the curtain of rain, watching him.

“You agreed to do what?” Gemma turned and lifted a soapy finger to push a stray wisp of hair from her face. Kincaid had shown up just as she and Toby were sitting down to their tea. Taking Toby on his lap, he’d zoomed carrot sticks into the child’s open mouth with appropriate airplane commentary, but he’d hardly touched anything himself, not even the warm meat pies her mother had sent from the bakery. Nor had he said anything about his day until she had asked him, and then his account of his meeting with Vic had been cursory at best.

“I only said I’d get in touch with an old mate of mine on the Cambridge force, see if I could have a look at the file,” he said now, and it seemed to her that his tone was deliberately casual.

Gemma unstoppered the sink in her cupboard-sized kitchen and dried her hands on a tea towel before she turned. From where she stood she could see Toby in the boxroom that served as his bedroom, rooting in a basket for a favorite picture book Kincaid had promised to read to him. “Why?” she said, trying to pitch her voice low enough so that Toby wouldn’t hear. “Why would you volunteer to do anything for her? This woman walked out on you without a word, without a note, marries another bloke as soon as the ink on the divorce papers is dry, and twelve years later she reappears and wants you to do her a favor? What are you thinking of?”

Kincaid had been sitting on the floor, playing at blocks with Toby. Now he pushed himself to his feet and looked down at her. “It’s not like that—it wasn’t like that at all. You don’t know her. Vic’s a decent person and she’s having a rough time just now, as you certainly should know. What would you have had me do?”

The direct jab stung, but she knew from his tone that she’d ventured into forbidden territory, so she smiled, trying to make light of it. “Oh, tell her to sod off, I suppose. To wherever it is ex-wives are supposed to go and never be heard from again.”

“Don’t be silly, Gemma,” he said, not sounding the least bit amused. “Look, I’ll ring Alec Byrne in Cambridge tomorrow, see if he’ll let me have an unofficial look at Lydia Brooke’s file. Then I’ll put Vic’s mind to rest, and that will be that. Let’s not quarrel about this, all right?”

“Me found it, Mummy!” shrieked Toby as he came trotting into the sitting room bearing aloft a book in a tattered dust jacket. “Alfie’s Boots.” He tugged on Duncan’s trouser leg. “Read me it, Duncan. You promised. Read me Alfie’s Boots.”

“It’s Alfie’s Feet, lovey,” corrected Gemma. Toby had developed a strong sense of identification with the little blond boy in Shirley Hughes’s books and demanded the stories so often that Gemma knew them by heart. Kneeling, she took the book from him. “I’ll tell you what, darling. Why don’t you go back in your room and find Dogger

, too. Then I’ll read them both to you before bed.” She gave him an encouraging pat on the bottom as she stood and faced Duncan again. “I’m not quarreling,” she said. “You’re being patronizing.”

“You’re making a fuss over nothing, Gemma,” he said, leaning back and propping his hip against the black half-moon table that served as both dining area and worktop in her tiny flat. “You wouldn’t be so upset if I’d agreed to do this for someone else.”

“That’s just too bloody condescending,” she hissed at him. “You wouldn’t have done it for someone else!”

A shadow passed across the uncurtained garden windows, then a moment later came a tap at the door. Gemma took a breath and rubbed at her already flushed cheeks.

“Expecting someone?” Kincaid asked. Arms folded, he looked maddeningly unperturbed.

“It must be Hazel.”

Gemma gave him one last furious look, crossed the room, and slid back the bolt. When Gemma had given up the house she’d shared with her ex-husband and moved into the garage flat in Islington, she’d acquired an unexpected friend in her landlady, Hazel Cavendish, and Toby an ally in her daughter, Holly.

“Hullo, love.” Hazel greeted Gemma with a hug, then brandished a video in one hand while waving at Kincaid with the other. “Hullo, Duncan. We’ve rented The Lion King—again—and I thought maybe Toby could watch it with us before bed. And if the kids should happen to fall asleep on the sofa in front of the telly, we’ll just tuck them up and let them snooze.” She gave Gemma and Duncan a conspiratorial grin.

“You’re too good, Hazel,” said Gemma in an effort to recover a little composure.