“That’s another thing.” He came back to the sofa long enough to retrieve his glass, then began to pace. “No one seems to know how to contact his father, so he’s gone to his grandparents.”
“So?” said Gemma, sounding puzzled. “I’d think that would be the best thing.”
“You don’t know them,” he said vehemently, and felt surprised at the bitterness in his voice. “Oh, I suppose you’re right, and I’m letting my dislike of them color my judgment. But Kit was so… desolate.” He cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have let them take him away.”
“Duncan, don’t be absurd. What else could you have done?”
“We keep coming back to that, don’t we? Nothing, nothing, and nothing! But I feel so bloody useless!”
They stared at each other for a long moment, then Gemma sighed. “I think I’ll go to bed. Leave you on your own for a bit. All right?”
He nodded. “Sorry, love. I’ll be along soon.”
She came to him and laid her hand lightly against his cheek, then she turned away and went into the bedroom.
Kincaid listened to the click of the door closing, and in the silence that followed he heard the cat begin to purr. Sid had jumped into Gemma’s spot on the sofa, and stood kneading his paws against the warm cushion, his eyes slitted in pleasure.
“You’re easy enough to comfort, aren’t you, mate?” Kincaid asked softly. “Maybe I should take lessons.”
Tipping Gemma’s untouched whisky into his own glass, he went to stand at the window again. He saw his own reflection, distorted by the lights in the house opposite, alien and unfamiliar.
CHAPTER
10
In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night
Move gently round the room, and watch you there,
And through the dreadful hours
The trees and waters and the hills have kept
The sacred vigil while you slept,
And lay a way of dews and flowers
Where your feet, your morning feet, shall tread.
RUPERT BROOKE,
from “The Charm”
Gemma woke suddenly, her heart thumping in the darkened room. It took her a moment to realize that she was in Duncan’s bed, rather than her own, and that she was alone. He had come to bed, though, for she had a faint memory of the warmth of his body, and she didn’t remember putting out the light.
She’d dreamt she was falling—not floating, but plummeting into some dark abyss, and even recalling the sensation brought a resurgence of panic. Sitting up, she focused on the clock’s glowing red numerals. Half past one. She slipped out of bed and groped for something to put on. Her fingers found his dressing gown, and when she’d fastened it round her and pushed her hair from her face, she went out to look for him.
Kincaid sat in the middle of the sitting room floor, amid a sea of books and papers. He’d changed from his work clothes into jeans and a pullover, and his uncombed hair flopped down onto his forehead.
“What are you doing?” asked Gemma.
He looked up at the sound of her voice. “Couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.” His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion.
“But what’s all this?” Coming to sit on the edge of the coffee table, she leaned down to stroke Sid, who had made himself comfortable on the largest stack of paper.
Kincaid made a vague gesture at the things surrounding him. “Vic’s manuscript. And anything else I could find that seemed to be related to Lydia Brooke.”
“You took Vic’s papers?” said Gemma, shocked into full wakefulness. “But that’s—”
“Interfering with the evidence? Well, I suppose that’s true enough, and I’ll answer to Alec for it if I have to. But in the meantime, I don’t know where to start.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I can separate Vic’s handwriting from Lydia’s in the loose papers, but that’s about as far as I’ve managed. And it will take me days just to read the manuscript,” he added, his frustration evident in his voice.
“Then come to bed, please,” said Gemma. “There’s no point in any of this until you hear the results of the postmortem. You know that. And being exhausted won’t help you deal with whatever comes tomorrow.”
“You’re too sensible by half, Gemma darling,” he said, sighing. “I’ll be along in a minute. I promise.”
He was as good as his word, for Gemma was still awake when he came quietly into the room and undressed in the dark. His skin felt chill where it brushed hers as he slipped into bed beside her.
“You’re cold,” she said. She turned to him, pressing her body to his, and felt him stiffen against her embrace. Wondering if a sense of disloyalty lay behind his resistance, she said carefully, “I don’t imagine Vic would want you to be alone, love. Why don’t you let me hold you?”
He was silent for so long she thought he might not respond, but finally he said, “I’m afraid. I’m afraid to let go. I keep telling myself that I hadn’t seen her for years—that she had no place in my life now—but it doesn’t help this terrible sense of loss.” He paused, then added quietly, “I hope I’m wrong about this, Gemma, about what happened to her. Because if someone killed her, and left her dead, or dying, for Kit to find, I swear I won’t rest until I find him.”
