hours, but he’d give them a ring and ask them to at least check hospital admissions. In the meantime, he’d better think of something useful for Bob Potts to do—anything at all being better than waiting. “Do you have a recent photograph of Kit?” he asked.
“He gave us a framed copy of his school photo for Christmas,” said Potts, sounding puzzled. “But what—”
“Take it to the bus and train stations. Kit had enough money for a fare. Ask the ticket vendors and anyone else who looks like they’ve been hanging about for a bit. A boy with a dog should be easy to remember. I’ll give the local police a ring and ask them to keep an eye out, but at this stage we’re better off looking ourselves.”
“You mean, you’ll help?” Potts sounded surprised and grateful, making Kincaid wonder what he’d expected.
“Of course I’ll help.” And God forgive him if he failed Kit the same way he’d failed Vic. He should have seen this coming.
Under a flat gray sky the road to Cambridge stretched in a now-familiar ribbon across the plains. Kincaid stayed in the fast lane, and the speedometer needle quivered as he pushed the Midget to its limit.
As he drove, he tried to ignore the images that flashed unbidden into his mind—Kit injured, Kit as tattered and lost as the homeless runaways he saw begging outside the Hampstead tube station. He wondered if the gut- wrenching panic he fought was part of what it meant to be a parent, and with that thought he realized he’d come to accept the idea that Kit was his son.
But beyond that realization he could not go—not yet, not until Kit was safely found. Now he needed to concentrate on the present, making sure he’d covered every contingency. He’d left Bob Potts sounding a bit stronger, then he’d gulped a cup of tea while pulling on jeans and sweatshirt and making phone calls.
The Reading police responded as expected, but agreed to make a few inquiries. Laura Miller said she’d not heard from Kit, but would ring round and let him know immediately if Kit had contacted any other friends, and Gemma promised to wait at the flat until he called.
Rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin as he neared the Grantchester junction, he thought out his options. He knew from experience that the first few hours in the search for a missing child were critical. If his instincts proved him wrong, he’d have to call out the big guns and order a full-scale search, working outwards from the Pottses’ Reading neighborhood.
Kincaid left the motorway and soon reached the outskirts of Grantchester. The streets seemed eerily empty, with only the curls of smoke rising from the occasional chimney giving evidence that the village hadn’t succumbed to some Brigadoon-like enchantment. He slowed almost to a crawl as doubt assailed him. Why had he wasted precious time on such a half-baked idea? Kit couldn’t have made it here, had probably never intended to come here. He was probably in London by now, being approached by one of the pimps always on the lookout for runaways to recruit as rent boys.
But even so, he stopped the Midget in the street, not on the gravel drive where the noise would warn anyone inside. Climbing out of the car, he closed the door softly and stood surveying the house. It seemed to him that it had already acquired a deserted look, although it had been empty only a few days, and the pink stucco looked garish against the dull sky.
He began a careful circuit of the house, checking the doors and windows in the front, then letting himself into the back garden through the gate. The French doors onto the patio were locked, as he’d left them, but when he reached the kitchen window he noticed a slight gap in the bottom seal. His pulse quickening, he squeezed in among the shrubs and pushed up on the casement. It slid up easily, and after a moment’s consideration, Kincaid levered himself through the gap as quietly as possible.
Dusting himself off as he looked round the kitchen, he saw no evidence of occupancy. Had he left the window unfastened, after all? Although at the time he’d thought he was fully capable, he found now that his memory of the night of Vic’s death was patchy at best.
He checked the sitting room, finding it as he’d left it, then Vic’s office, which now showed the same evidence of police thoroughness as had her office at the English Faculty.
Quietly mounting the stairs, he methodically eliminated first the spare bedroom, then Vic’s room. He stood in the hall, aware of the beating of his heart, aware he was postponing the obvious choice till last, so afraid was he of failure. Taking a steadying breath, he eased open the door to Kit’s room.
After the dimness of the corridor, he was blinded by the light from the uncurtained window. He stood for a moment, blinking, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw the bed was empty, the duvet unwrinkled. His heart sank. He’d been wrong, and the time spent coming here could not be recovered.
Then just as he turned away, he heard a sound—a rustle, and a very faint thumping. He stopped, listening, and as it came again he was able to pinpoint it. Slowly, he crossed the room and edged round the end of Kit’s bed, until he could see into the space between the bed and the wall. A small, shaggy dog lay on a crumpled quilt, head on its paws as it looked alertly at him, while its tail gently thumped the floor.
And beneath the quilt lay Kit, eyes closed, one arm thrown over his head as if he’d been dreaming. He was still wearing his anorak, and his chest rose and fell in a deep and regular rhythm as he breathed through his open mouth.
The wave of giddiness that swept through Kincaid made his knees suddenly weak. He sat down on the bed and reached out to pat the dog, which thumped its tail a bit harder. “Some watchdog you are,” he said with a laugh that sounded suspiciously shaky, and at the sound of his voice Kit stirred and opened his eyes. Kincaid saw the beginning of a smile as Kit recognized him, then alarm as he realized he’d been discovered.
Kit pushed himself up, trying to escape the entangling folds of the quilt and the dog’s weight on his legs. “I’m not going back,” he said as he managed to free himself.
“Hullo, Kit.” Kincaid smiled at him. “What on earth are you doing down there?”
Squatting now, Kit leaned back against the wall and regarded him with a puzzled expression. After a moment, he said, “Hiding. I thought if they came for me, they might not think to look behind the bed. I told Tess to be quiet.”
“She’s a very well-behaved dog. It was only her tail wagging that gave you away. Why did you call her Tess?”
Kit reached out to stroke the dog. “Because I found her behind the Tesco.”
“Oh, of course,” said Kincaid. “Silly of me not to twig. Have either of you had anything to eat?”
