Dreaming Of The Bones

Jean until she wasn’t Jean anymore. That’s how I knew.” He frowned at Adam and reached for his tumbler again, then stared in puzzlement at the vacant spot on the table.

Adam got up and retrieved the glass, and as he returned it to the table he saw that the bottle was almost empty. How full had it been in the beginning, he wondered, and need he worry about alcohol poisoning?

“Let me help you to bed, Nathan,” he said gently.

Nathan poured the last bit of whisky into his glass and swallowed it. “Don’ wanna sleep. Hafta wake up then, see?” He leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “Go home, Adam. Nothing to do.” After a moment he repeated, as if to himself, “Nothing to do.”

Adam sat on, watching him until his breathing changed. Whether Nathan had fallen asleep or passed out, he couldn’t tell, but his breaths were deep and regular, and he didn’t respond when Adam softly said his name.

Carefully, Adam knelt by the hearth and banked up the fire, then fixed the screen in front of it. He took the lap rug that had been folded over the back of his chair and spread it over Nathan’s still form, and then, not knowing what else he could do, he let himself out.

It was only when he woke in the cold hour before dawn, in his bed in the vicarage, that he realized what he’d seen in the sudden blaze as he’d made up the fire: Nathan’s father’s old shotgun, propped in the shadows by the back door.

As he turned the corner into Carlingford Road, Kincaid saw Gemma in the halo of light cast by the streetlamp. She wore jeans and the old navy pea coat she used for knocking about on weekends, and she sat on the steps of his building with her arms wrapped round her knees as if she were cold.

First he felt a flooding of relief, just knowing that she was alive and well, not snatched away from him, too— and then, mixed with the relief, the sort of senseless anger one feels towards a child who has narrowly escaped mishap.

He pulled the Rover into an empty spot at the right-hand curb, got out, and walked across to her. “Why didn’t you let yourself into the flat?” he said. “Look at you—you’re freezing.”

“I tried,” she said, looking up at him. “I couldn’t settle.” She pushed herself up from the steps and stood, her face on a level with his. “The Chief told me about Vic, Duncan. I’m so sorry.”

It was then he discovered that her sympathy was the one thing he couldn’t bear, and that any response he might make would threaten his precarious control. Looking away from her, he said, “Let’s go upstairs, why don’t we, and have a drink.”

When they reached the flat, he discovered that Gemma had switched on the lamps and turned up the heating, and when he’d poured them both a small whisky he joined her on the sofa. Sid jumped into his lap, purring as if he’d been gone a week. “Hullo, mate,” he said, stroking the cat’s sleek, black fur. “It’s been a bloody long day, hasn’t it?”

“Tell me what happened,” said Gemma. “I only know what you told Denis.” She’d curled up in the corner of the sofa, feet beneath her, so that she could face him.

He took a sip of his drink, and while his throat still burned from it, he said harshly, “Kit found her in the kitchen when he came home from school. The medics said there was nothing they could do, probable heart attack.”

“Oh, no,” breathed Gemma, shaking her head. “It’s so hard to believe. She seemed so well on Sunday.”

“I don’t believe it, Gemma.” Sid put his ears back, affronted, and Kincaid made an effort to lower his voice. “It’s just too much bloody coincidence.”

Warily, Gemma said, “What are you talking about?”

“If you discount all the suicidal trappings, Lydia Brooke died suddenly and unexpectedly of heart failure, too.”

“But Lydia had a heart condition,” protested Gemma. “Her heart failure was brought on by an overdose of her own medication.”

“And what if the suicide was manufactured? What if someone gave Lydia an overdose of her medication? That’s what Vic suspected, even though she tiptoed round the obvious.”

“But why? Why would someone kill Lydia?”

“That’s what Vic was trying to discover. And I didn’t take her seriously.” Kincaid finally looked at Gemma, and saw the truth of it reflected in her eyes.

“You couldn’t have known,” Gemma said softly, but they both knew it didn’t absolve him. “This is all speculation. And Vic didn’t have a heart condition, did she?”

“Now you’re arguing against yourself. That makes it all the less likely that she would die of heart failure, and it wouldn’t keep an overdose of heart medication from doing the damage.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Gemma admitted. “But you can’t be sure of anything until the toxicology scans come back.”

“Bloody Alec isn’t even treating it as a crime scene.” Kincaid moved restlessly, causing Sid to stir in his lap.

“You can’t very well blame him, under the circumstanc—”

“I can and I will, if the PM results come back positive. It’s sloppy police work, and you know it.” He glared at her, then seeing her expression, said contritely, “I’m sorry, Gemma. I don’t mean to be churlish. It’s just that…”

“Do you want me to go?”

He stood up, dumping Sid unceremoniously to the floor, and went to the French windows. He looked out onto the darkened balcony, and after a moment said, “No. Stay. Please.” Turning to face her again, he asked, “What about Toby?”

“Hazel offered to keep him for the night,” she said, then frowned. “Duncan, what about Kit?”