current was still strong—she wouldn’t want Tosh going in if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Tavie shielded her eyes from the glare on the water, leaning forward perilously as she peered into the nest of tree trunks and debris. When she stiffened, Kieran dropped to his knees beside her.
Tavie turned to him, pushing him back as if she could keep him from seeing what she had seen. But it was too late.
Beneath the surface, tendrils of dark hair moved like moss, and white fingers, slightly curled, drifted back and forth as if waving, signaling for help.
“No,” said Kieran. “No.” And the roaring overtook him.
Chapter Four
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
“An Astra,” said Kit. “An Astra Estate. And green. What could possibly be worse?”
Duncan Kincaid glanced at his son sitting beside him in the passenger seat, long legs sprawled into the foot well, and bit his tongue on old adages about horses and gifts. He reminded himself that he had hated being patronized when he was Kit’s age. He also remembered what it was like to be fourteen, when nothing mattered more than what others thought.
Kit had been unusually quiet as they drove up through Somerset and Wiltshire, concentrating on his iPod Touch rather than the beautiful autumnal scenery. It was only now, when they had joined the M4 and passed through the unexciting edges of Swindon, that he’d stirred and removed his earphones.
“That’s a bit ungracious, don’t you think?” Kincaid said moderately.
“I’m not being seen getting out of it at school.” Kit’s expression was mulish. “And I’m certainly not going to drive it.”
Kincaid was beginning to lose patience. “You’ve got a few years before you even need to think about driving, so let’s worry about that one when we get to it,” he said, although he was sure his mum and dad had been thinking exactly that when they had offered Duncan and Gemma their old car. The Astra Estate was old, solid, comfortable, and supremely safe—all things anathema to a fourteen-year-old boy.
His dad had presented the car with all the glee of a first-time parent playing at Father Christmas. Kincaid suspected that if it hadn’t been for the rain, he might actually have wrapped it in ribbon. “Your mother wants something greener,” he’d said, then chuckled at his own inadvertent humor. “More ecologically correct, that is. Not that the Astra’s bad, mind you. But we thought you could use the extra carrying space, now that you have Charlotte with you.”
Kincaid had to admit he was right. The three kids had been stuffed into the back of Gemma’s Escort on the journey down to Somerset, and there had been tears and tantrums aplenty. They did need a bigger car, but he’d been too busy with work and the recent demands of family life to really give the matter serious consideration, not to mention that Gemma’s recent unpaid leave had seriously cut into their budget—as would his.
He still had his old MG, although he seldom drove it these days. The maintenance on it was a nightmare, but he was reluctant to sell it for the pittance it was worth. He had once rashly promised Kit that he would keep the Midget until he learned to drive, and he hated going back on a promise to his son. Now, however, the thought of Kit actually driving the little car horrified him—only slightly more than contemplating what it would cost to insure him if he did so.
His dad had given him an easy out. “I could come up to London and drive the Midget back to Cheshire,” Hugh had offered. “Keep it in the garage, do some restoration. Get it in tip-top shape.” When Kincaid, who had never seen his dad do more than change a tire, raised an eyebrow, Hugh had given him a sly wink. “Never too old,” he’d added.
Gemma had hugged Hugh, then his mum, Rosemary, who had left her packing to join in the surprise. “You are dears,” Gemma said. “But are you sure? How will you get back to Nantwich?”
“Not to worry,” Rosemary assured her. “Jack will run us to the train. And the new car’s ordered—it should be waiting for us when we get home.”
Looking at his parents, it had seemed to Kincaid that his father was a little thinner, and his mother a little grayer, than when he had seen them last. They were unfailingly generous, taking into their lives first Kit, the grandson whose existence they had not even imagined, then Toby, and now Charlotte. He loved them for it, and he realized that he told them so too seldom.
He’d given his mother a kiss on the cheek and his father a manly sort of hug-with-handshake. “Thank you. The car’s brilliant. And it means we’ll be able to come visit you more often.”
Toby had begun jumping up and down, shouting, “The dogs can come now, too, the dogs can come, too,” and was soon joined in the jumping by Charlotte. Jack and Winnie stood on the porch, holding Constance and grinning.
The only one not enthusiastic had been Kit, who stood with arms crossed, frowning. Kit had begged to go back to Cheshire with his cousins, Duncan’s sister Juliet’s children, for the rest of the half-term break. But as much as Kincaid loved his niece, Lally, he hadn’t liked the idea of the two teenagers on their own without his or Gemma’s supervision. Not that he and Gemma had kept them from getting into real trouble before, he thought with the shudder that always accompanied the memory of the previous Christmas.
Now, he looked at Kit, fidgeting and scowling beside him, and wondered if there was more bothering him than the car and the end-of-holiday blues.
As they’d had two cars to drive back to London, Gemma had taken Toby and Charlotte in the Escort, and Kincaid had thought that taking Kit in the Astra would give them some quality time together.
“Maybe we could go to Nantwich over Christmas,” he said, realizing the rashness of the suggestion even as he made it. He felt sure that Gemma would want to be at home—it would be Charlotte’s first Christmas as part of their family. “Or afterwards,” he amended. “Boxing Day. We might stay a few days between Christmas and New Year’s.”
Kit looked a little mollified, then frowned again. “What if Lally and Sam have to spend their hols with their dad? He wants them to live with him all the time, you know.” He shot a glance at Kincaid through the hair that was falling into his eyes. “Now that Aunt Jules is seeing that policeman.”
“What?” Kincaid had to make an effort to concentrate on an overtaking lorry. “Juliet’s seeing a copper? She never said a word.” But now it occurred to him that his sister had seemed happier and more relaxed, and that several times he’d caught her smiling for no apparent reason when she thought no one was looking, and checking her phone for messages. But a copper?
Then the light dawned. “Surely not Ronnie Babcock, the old fox,” he said aloud, grinning. Ronnie Babcock had been his schoolmate, and was now a senior detective in the Cheshire Constabulary. Ronnie, who had risked his life for them the previous Christmas, was as tough as old boots, and on the surface as different from Juliet as chalk from cheese. But his sister was tough in her own way, and there was no doubt Ronnie was a man she could respect.
“Lally’s dad doesn’t like him,” said Kit. “And he says Aunt Juliet’s a—” Kit paused, obviously thinking better of repeating verbatim what he’d been told. “Uncle Caspar says the ink’s barely dry on the divorce papers,” he amended.
Caspar Newcombe, Kincaid’s former brother-in-law, had good reason not to like Ronnie Babcock. And it had nothing to do with Juliet or jealousy, which Kit knew as well as anyone. Nor was it likely that Caspar Newcombe, considering his current legal troubles, would have a chance of gaining full custody of the children.
