Dreaming Of The Bones

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.”