Dreaming Of The Bones

Gemma and Vic stood on the porch, watching them. The rain had stopped, and a few gaps in the western clouds hinted at a glorious sunset. “Is Toby your son?” asked Vic.

“He’s three. And he already loves cars. Must be genetic.”

“I know. And to think I used to believe all that stuff about raising your children free of gender stereotypes.” She laid light fingers on Gemma’s arm. “I’m glad you came.”

The Midget’s engine sputtered to life. Kit jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran across to them. “It’s really neat, Mum. Can we get one like it? Our car is so boring.”

Vic laughed. “I like boring.”

Kincaid had followed Kit and now shook his hand. “I’ll sell it to you when you’re sixteen.” He pecked Vic on the cheek, then took Gemma by the elbow. “’Bye, thanks for the tea.”

There was something in Vic’s stance, thought Gemma, looking back as they pulled away, that could be read as easily as words on a page—an invisible angle of determination. Liking the pattern the words made in her mind, she repeated them to herself, and she felt an odd quickening inside her, as if something stirred in its sleep.

By the time they reached the motorway the fissures in the clouds had widened, revealing the sunset in full hue. Kincaid always thought of sunsets as feminine, and this one was particularly voluptuous, with rosy-gold billows of cloud forming shapes reminiscent of reclining Rubenesque nudes. He smiled at his metaphor and glanced at Gemma, wondering if she’d accuse him of sexism if he shared it with her.

She sat silently beside him, watching the sky, not even complaining, for once, about his car. He thought about asking her what she was thinking, but just then a passing lorry spattered sludge on the windscreen, and fighting its back draft while momentarily blinded required all his attention. When he could see again, he put a piano cassette in the tape player and concentrated on his driving.

They found the lights switched on in Gemma’s flat and a vase of daffodils on the table. Beside it lay a note from Hazel, a pot of beans, and a loaf of homemade bread. “Have a good feed,” the note read. “Gourmet beans on toast.”

“I see your fairy godmother’s been,” said Kincaid, dipping a finger into the still warm beans for a taste. “If she weren’t already taken, I’d snatch her in a minute.”

“She wouldn’t have you,” Gemma said equably. “Just count yourself lucky to get some of the fringe benefits.”

When Toby had been fed and put to bed, and they’d finished up the last of their toast and tea, Kincaid rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’ll do the washing up,” he offered, “if I can have a glass of wine. I could swim in the tea I’ve drunk today.”

“Red or white?” Gemma stood on tiptoe as she reached for the glasses in the cupboard.

He admired the elongated line of her body as she stretched, and the curves hinted at beneath the bulk of her jumper. Stepping up behind her, he laid his hands lightly on her waist. “Mmmm, red, I think.”

Gemma slipped out of his grasp with an abstracted smile. When she’d poured them both a glass of burgundy, she cleared the dishes from the half-moon table while he ran hot water and squirted soap in the basin.

“Sit,” he ordered her as he began the soaping and rinsing. “There’s not room for us both in here—or there is, but it’s quite distracting.” When this mildly flirtatious comment received no response, he looked round as much as his dripping hands would allow. She sat in one of the slatted chairs at the table, booted feet stretched out before her, staring into the wineglass cradled in her lap. He started to speak, then thought better of it, slotting the last of the plates into the drying rack before he wiped his hands and turned to her.

“Gemma, what is it?” he asked, taking the other chair so that he could look directly into her face. “You’ve hardly said a word since we left Cambridge.”

“Oh.” She looked at him as if surprised to find him there. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking.”

“So I gathered. Care to elaborate?”

She frowned. “I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not quite sure I’ve worked out how to put it into words.”

With some trepidation, he asked, “Is this about Vic?” He’d thought taking Gemma with him the best way to allay her fears, but perhaps it had been a mistake.

To his surprise, the corners of Gemma’s mouth turned up in a smile. “I didn’t expect to like her, you know, but I did. Even though there’s still a connection between the two of you, I found I didn’t mind. I don’t know why I was so frightened of it, or why I expected to be so intimidated by her.”

“Intimidated by Vic? Why?”

Hesitating, Gemma looked away from him, then said slowly, “You know I did my A levels, but then I decided on the Academy rather than University. I thought I wouldn’t be able to talk to her—that we wouldn’t have a thing in common. Or worse, that she’d talk down to me, be all smug about her education and her career.”

“Why on earth should she—”

“No, wait, let me finish.” Gemma gave him a quelling look, her brows drawn together again. “It didn’t turn out that way at all. The things she said made sense to me, and the funny thing is, I think I understood something you didn’t.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, thoroughly puzzled now.

“You told her that the end of her book about Lydia didn’t matter. You didn’t see that it’s the end that gives the book its truth.” He must have looked blank, because she shook her head in frustration. “Look at it this way. Vic’s right about women needing stories about other women’s accomplishments. Do you know how much it would have meant to me when I started out in the Met if I’d had another woman’s experience to guide me?

“There were less than a handful of female DCIs then, and they were playing by men’s rules. But I wanted something different. I thought that I could be a good police officer—maybe even a better police officer—because I’m a woman, not in spite of it, and there were times, especially in the beginning, that I almost gave up. There was nobody to reassure me that I had something special to offer, that I wasn’t crazy, that it could be done.”