“Not in Edinburgh. We lived in a tenement building, where the most I could manage was a pot of geraniums in the kitchen window. But I helped my mum when I was a child.”
Gemma thought of her own parents’ flat above the bakery in Leyton. Her mother had never even managed a pot of geraniums. “You’re English?”
“Yes, from Kent, originally. But my parents divorced when I was thirteen, and I went to boarding school in Hampshire. That’s how I came to know Hazel.”
Gemma came to a decision. “Louise, I’m really worried about Hazel. I know you’re old friends—”
“You’re talking about Donald, aren’t you? I didn’t approve of this arrangement, if that’s what you mean. Home wrecker is generally not part of my job description.”
Some of the previous evening’s edge had returned to Louise’s voice.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t criticizing you. I just thought you might have been able to discourage her, if you knew —”
“I’ve had nothing from Hazel in ten years but a scrib-bled note on a Christmas card. I don’t think my opinion would have counted for much. And besides, we can’t afford Donald Brodie’s ill will. He’s too—”
A distant crack reverberated in the still air. This time Gemma had no doubt it was a gunshot. She jumped up, spilling her tea. “What—”
“It’s just someone potting at rabbits,” Louise said, but she stood and poured out her mug. “This is shooting country, after all, and one has to keep in trim for the Glorious Twelfth.” Seeing Gemma’s blank expression, she added, “The Twelfth of August. The beginning of grouse season.”
“Oh, yes,” Gemma murmured, still listening for an outcry, or another shot. She stepped outside and Louise joined her. “It’s just that in London—”
“You’ll get used to it,” Louise assured her. “People here basically shoot anything that moves. Grouse, pheasant, ptarmigan, deer—”
John Innes came out the back door, looking around in visible agitation. “Louise!” he called, spotting them.
“I’ve guests at the table, and the plates not ready.”
“Sorry,” Louise said to Gemma as she picked up her abandoned basket. “Duty calls.”
When Louise had followed her husband into the house, Gemma stood alone in the garden, listening for the sound of another shot.
When they’d finished the washing up, they all trooped outside for the promised game of football.
Their tiny back garden backed up to a gated communal garden, an advantage they could not ordinarily have afforded in London, if not for their good fortune in leas-ing the house from his guv’nor’s sister. Both boys and dogs had spent many hours playing under the spreading trees, and there was enough lawn to lay out sticks for their football goalposts.
They chose sides, Kincaid against the boys, and for half an hour, he was able to lose himself in running and shouting, and in expending some of his anger in vicious
kicks at the ball. The dogs ran alongside them, barking excitedly. At last a particularly fierce scramble for the ball brought them all down in a tangled heap of arms and legs. Toby, spying a friend at the other end of the garden, jumped up and raced off with a four-year-old’s energy, while Kincaid and Kit lay panting in the sun.
Knowing he must grab the opportunity, Kincaid plunged in. “Kit, I’ve had a letter from your grandmother—or rather from your grandmother’s solicitor.”
“Solicitor?” Kit sat up, his face going pale beneath its rosy flush.
“She sent a copy to Ian as well. It seems she thinks you’d be better off in her care. She—”
“You mean live with her?” Kit was already shaking his head, his breath coming fast. “I won’t! You know I won’t.
I’d rather—”
“Hold on, Kit.” Kincaid put a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let me finish. Yes, that’s what she wants, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. You know I want you here with me—with us—always. But in order to ensure that, we’re going to have to plan our response, and that means talking things out. Okay?”
Kit nodded, slowly, but his eyes were still wide with shock.
“Okay. Good lad.” Kincaid smiled at him. “I rang Ian last night.” He’d sat up late at the kitchen table, rereading Eugenia’s letter and drinking too many cups of tea from Gemma’s teapot. His ex-wife’s mother had always been difficult, but after her only child’s murder her behavior seemed to disintegrate beyond reason. Although she claimed to have Kit’s interests in mind, she tormented the boy mercilessly, blaming him for his mother’s death, and both Kincaid and Ian had severely limited her visitations.
Vic’s father, Robert Potts, was a mild-mannered man who
seemed unwilling—or unable—to stand up to his wife’s bullying. Now it seemed Eugenia was prepared to carry out the threats she’d been making for months.
Although Kincaid had been sorely tempted to ring Gemma, in the end he’d decided there was no point in spoiling her weekend with worry when there was nothing she could do.
When the hands on the kitchen clock crept round to midnight, he had picked up the phone and called Ian McClellan in Canada, catching him just home from his classes at the university. Kincaid explained the latest development, then, when Ian had finished swearing, he’d asked, “Could you write a letter giving Kit permission to live with me, and stating your reasons? You might have it notarized for good measure.”
“I can do that,” Ian agreed, “although I don’t think any halfway decent family judge would give Eugenia the time of day. I’m sure at Kit’s age his wishes would be considered paramount. Still . . .”
“You think we should consult a solicitor? We’ll have to act together on this.” Kincaid and Ian had developed an odd but workable relationship over the past year, rather like ex-spouses sharing custody of a child. Except, of course, that Kincaid had no legal rights.
“I think we’ll have to,” Ian said with a sigh, leaving Kincaid wondering if he were replying to the question or the statement. “Look, Duncan . . .” Ian paused for a long moment. “We’ve tiptoed around this for a good while, but I think now we’re going to have to talk about it. Vic and I never did. We just let it fester, and I wish—well, things might have been different if we’d got it out in the open.
What I’m saying is—it’s not that I don’t want to take responsibility for Kit, but if you were to prove paternity, there’d be no question of Eugenia interfering.”
Of course, Kincaid had considered the possibility of testing but had been unwilling to subject Kit to the emotional stress such a procedure would entail, unless it was absolutely necessary—but that seemed to have come to pass.
Now, he said, “Kit, there is one simple way we could put a stop to this. We can prove you’re my son.”
“You mean . . . a test?”
At the look of horror on the boy’s face, Kincaid hastened to reassure him. “Don’t worry, it’s painless. They just take a bit of saliva, a swab from inside your cheek—”
“No. I don’t want to do it.”
“It’s nothing, I promise—”
“No, it’s not that. I—I wouldn’t want Ian to think I—”
“It was Ian’s suggestion, Kit. He wants what’s best for—”
“No,” Kit said again, shaking his head more emphati-cally. He rose into a crouch, like a runner in starting position. “I’m not having any test. And I’m not going to live with the old witch. I’ll run away first. Tess and I could manage on our own.”
Kincaid tried to push aside the sudden vision of Kit living on the street, dirty and emaciated, curled up on a curbside blanket with the dog, but his worry and exasperation got the better of him. “Kit, don’t be ridiculous.
It’s not going to come to that. If you’ll just—”
“No.” Kit pushed himself to his feet and looked down at Kincaid. His mouth was set in an implacable line that reminded Kincaid very much of Vic at her most stubborn. “You’re always telling me to take things on faith,” he said.
