After a moment, Kincaid said, “Listen, Ian. Kit’s not with his grandparents. He ran away.” He caught a glimpse of Nathan’s startled expression and raised a restraining hand. “I found him here. He’s staying with some friends in London until we can get things sorted out.”
Ian raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, the lids swollen. “But why would he do such a thing? He was always a good kid, in spite of—”
“All this—Vic’s death… I don’t know how bad things were with his grandmother before, but she’s impossible now. She means to keep him, and she’s not fit to do it. And I don’t know how much power her husband has over her.”
“Oh, Christ.” Ian rubbed his forehead. “Eugenia was always a bloody bitch. But I thought with Kit—”
Kincaid shook his head. “Kit won’t stay, and we can’t take a chance on what might happen to him if he runs away again.”
“I can’t have him with me, do you understand? And I can’t come back.” There was a hint of apology in Ian’s words.
“Let me tell you what I have in mind.” By the time Gemma came in with the tea, Kincaid had outlined a plan.
When they’d filled their mismatched mugs from the teapot, Kincaid said, “Ian, as far as Kit’s concerned, you’re his dad. He needs to see you. Tell him these arrangements are your idea of what’s best for him. Tell him you’ll have him for a visit at the end of term. Surely you can give him a half hour, after what he’s been through.”
Ian looked away, and Kincaid thought he would refuse even that. But after a moment, he rubbed at his face again and sighed. “All right. I’ll come this evening. And I’ll make the necessary arrangements with his grandparents. They’ve no right to dispute my decision.” He wrote Gemma’s address on a page torn from Kincaid’s notebook.
Kincaid met Ian’s eyes as he returned the pad. “Don’t tell him about me. He doesn’t need that right now.”
Ian held his gaze, then gave a barely perceptible nod of agreement. “I’ll get the rest of my things,” he said. “Now—if you don’t mind …” He gave them a slightly sardonic smile as he stood.
“Ian,” Kincaid said before he could leave the room. “You haven’t found one of Vic’s books in with your things, by any chance?” He described the Marsh memoir. “And there were some poems—”
“Lydia’s poems?” said Nathan. “The ones Vic found in the Marsh book?” He frowned at Kincaid. “Why didn’t you ask me before? Vic gave them to me.”
They’d spent most of the afternoon at Parkside police station going over things with Alec Byrne, and had achieved little more than confirming that Ian McClellan’s documents did indeed show him to have been out of the country at the time of Vic’s death.
Byrne had received their account of Miss Pope’s evidence that Vic had already been ill by half past three with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “We’ll go over the statements again, but I really don’t see that this puts us much further forwards,” he said. “We’ve no apparent motive for Dr. McClellan’s death—or for Lydia Brooke’s in the event she did not commit suicide—and now it seems that these poems you thought the murderer had stolen were simply misplaced.” Byrne steepled his long fingers together. “Quite frankly, Duncan, we’ve not had a single good lead on this case, and my manpower resources are dwindling. You know how it is. I’ve a missing child to deal with, and the mugging of an eighty-year-old woman in her bed.” He shrugged.
“You’re telling me you’re turning Vic’s case over to a file clerk. Alec—”
“If anything turns up I’ll put every available officer on it. But in the meantime …” Byrne cast a look of appeal at Gemma, then turned back to Kincaid. “What would you do if you were in my shoes?”
Kincaid had reluctantly conceded Byrne’s point, his sense of frustration mounting. Would he keep on, he wondered, if he weren’t personally involved?
By the time they’d driven back to London and pulled the car up on the double-yellows in front of Gemma’s flat he had arrived at an answer. Like Alec, he had learned to accept a percentage of failure in his job. But he had spent all his adult life learning the art of catching killers—and with knowledge came responsibility. Someone had deliberately set out to murder Vic, not only taking her life, but changing her son’s life forever. He would not give up until he knew the truth, no matter how long it took or what it cost him. He would see justice done, for Vic … and for Lydia as well.
The morning’s wind had given way to an unexpectedly warm and hazy afternoon, and they found Kit playing in the garden with the children. He was humming tunelessly as he built something with old bits of brick, and he gave an uncomplicated smile of pleasure when he looked up and saw them watching. It seemed that at least for a few moments he’d found some solace.
Kincaid had taken him aside then, telling him that Ian had come back, but only temporarily, and would take him and Tess to the Miller family that evening. Kit stared at him a moment, his face unreadable, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the house without a word.
