He was silent for a long moment, absently pushing cake crumbs about on his plate with his finger. Then he looked up at her. “Why couldn’t I see it, then, if it’s so bloody obvious?”
“I suppose it’s because our images of ourselves are so static. We literally don’t see ourselves the way others see us—we base our self-concept on the one view we see every morning in the mirror. But if you were to place a photo of yourself at that age next to one of Kit, you’d see it.”
“But what if you’re wrong? This is all based on pure speculation and … and intuition,” he finished a bit lamely. He was, thought Rosemary, grasping at straws in a last-ditch effort at denial.
“Who was it at Christmas telling me how important intuition was to a detective?” When he didn’t smile, she sighed and said, “Darling, I could very well be wrong. And I don’t like to meddle. Under other circumstances—if Vic were alive, and she and Kit and Ian were all living happily as a family—I might not have said anything. But as things are now… how can you afford not to be sure?”
Kincaid rang the bell of Gemma’s flat well after dark, hoping she was home, hoping she would consent to see him, for he’d left her abruptly on her own in Grantchester with only a muttered assurance that he’d ring her later.
Afterwards he’d walked blindly through the village until he’d reached the footpath along the Cam, and after that he couldn’t say now how long he had walked, or even in which direction. But the temperature had eventually begun to drop, his feet in their slick-soled shoes to hurt, and he found himself back at his car on the High Street as the sun dropped below the rooftops.
He’d driven back to London with his desire for company growing as urgent as his earlier need for solitude, and now he breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the click of the latch on Gemma’s door and a sliver of yellow light spilled out onto his face and hands.
“Gemma? May I come in?”
She pulled the door back further and he saw she’d changed into old jeans and a sweater. As he stepped into the tiny flat he saw the picture books spread over the bed, and a boy-shaped lump under the duvet. “Is it too late?”
“We were just reading,” said Gemma, giving an exaggerated nod towards the bed. “But Toby seems to have disappeared. I think he ate the magic pebble that makes little boys invisible, and I can’t find him anywhere.”
Kincaid cleared his throat and put on his best Sherlock Holmes voice. “Let me put my detective skills to use. Where’s my magnifying glass? All right, Watson, the game’s afoot!”
There followed the elaborate ritual of hide-and-seek, as they ignored the occasional suppressed giggle from under the bedclothes, until finally the missing boy was brought to light with much squealing and tickling.
“More, more! Hide me more!” wailed Toby as Gemma carried him off to bed, but she tucked him in with a promise of another story in the morning.
I missed all this, thought Kincaid with an unexpected stab of loss.
“Are you all right?” asked Gemma as she carefully shut Toby’s door. “What on earth happened to you this afternoon?”
He sat at the half-moon table, and she pulled out a chair so that she could face him.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said, absently rearranging the candles Gemma kept on the table.
“Start at the beginning. What did your mother say to you? You were white as chalk when I came back from the kiosk.” She leaned forwards and traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips, the gentleness of her touch belying the impatience of her words.
“You’re too observant by half,” he said, stalling, but she refused the bait and merely watched him in silence. He took a breath. “My mother says Kit is the spitting image of me at the same age. She says she thinks Kit is my son.”
Gemma’s eyes widened, the pupils dilating with surprise until he saw his own reflection in them. “Dear God,” she breathed. “How could I have been so blind?”
“You don’t doubt it?” He found he’d hoped for at least a token protest, and yet he felt some small kernel of satisfaction in her immediate recognition.
Shaking her head slowly, she said, “I saw it myself—the resemblance. He seemed so familiar, as if I saw him every day.” She touched his face again, with a look of wonder. “And I do. But you—how could you not have known Vic was pregnant?”
He pushed his chair back and stood, feeling suddenly confined in the flat. “We could go for a walk,” he suggested.
“I don’t like to leave Toby.”
“No, of course not. Silly of me.” Bloody hell. He hadn’t got used to the responsibility of one child, much less two. He wouldn’t know where to begin.
The odd sense of claustrophobia grew heavier, and searching for an excuse for movement, he fumbled in the breast pocket of his suit until he felt the book of matches he’d picked up yesterday in the pub.
