Dreaming Of The Bones

Vic looked away for a moment, then said slowly, “I’m not sure. It sounds so daft in the light of day…”

“Come on, out with it.”

“What if Lydia didn’t kill herself? I know with her history it was a logical assumption, but just think how easy that would have made it for someone else.” Vic stopped the rush of words and took a breath, adding more slowly, “What I’m saying is … I think Lydia might have been murdered.”

In the silence that followed, Kincaid counted to ten in his head. Tread carefully, he cautioned himself. Don’t tell her she’s too close, that she’s lost her perspective. Don’t tell her how far people go to deny the suicides of loved ones—and he had no doubt that Vic felt closer to Lydia Brooke than many did to their own flesh and blood—and for God’s sake don’t tell her she’s hysterical. “All right,” he said finally. “Three questions. Why, how, and who?”

Voice rising, Vic said, “I don’t know. I’ve interviewed everyone I could contact, and I can’t even find anyone who had a minor quarrel with her. But it still doesn’t feel right.”

Kincaid drank the dregs of his tea while he considered how to answer. Ten years ago, twelve years ago, he’d been a by-the-book copper, and he probably would have laughed at her suspicions. But he’d learned not to discount intuition, even as unlikely as it sometimes seemed. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s assume for a moment that you’re right, that there is something fishy about Lydia’s death. What is it that you want me to do?”

Vic smiled, and he saw to his astonishment that her eyes had filled with tears. “I wanted you to tell me I’m not crazy. You can’t imagine what a relief it is just to talk about it.” She hesitated, touching her fingers to her throat. “And then I thought maybe you could look into it a bit…”

Trying to contain his exasperation, he said, “Vic, the case is five years old, and it’s not in my jurisdiction. What could I possibly do? Why don’t you talk to someone on the force here—”

She was already shaking her head. “You’ve got to be kidding. You know perfectly well they’d send me away with a condescending pat on the back and never open the file. They’ve too much to do with gangs and drugs these days to spend time on something like this. Surely there’s something you could do, someone you could talk to, at least open a door for me.”

Kincaid thought of his own caseload, of the scramble for time to spend with Gemma, of his credibility—he’d be an idiot to take this on. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw the photograph, silver-framed on the side table—Vic and her son, and Ian McClellan, smiling into the lens—and he knew he couldn’t refuse her.

Under his breath he muttered, “Oh, bloody hell.” He knew someone on the Cambridgeshire force, a colleague who’d transferred there, hoping for a less stressful life. Just how far could he impose on past acquaintance? “All right, Vic. I’ll try to get a look at the case file. Just don’t expect miracles, okay? More than likely everything in that file is so clean and aboveboard you could eat off it.”

She gave him a quick smile. “Thanks.”

A crack of thunder made them both jump, and as he looked up, rain began pelting against the window. He glanced at his watch, aware suddenly of the lateness of the hour, and wondered if Gemma would be back from her parents’ and waiting for him. “I’m sorry, Vic,” he began, standing and depositing his cup on the side table with a clink, “I’ve got to—oh, Christ,” he swore as the thought struck him. “I’ve left the bloody top down.”

“You’ll get soaked,” Vic said, jumping up. “I’ll get a brolly and a towel.”

Before he could say, “There’s no time,” she’d slipped out of the room ahead of him, and when he reached the door she had a towel and an old umbrella waiting. He grabbed them and sprinted across the gravel, trying to work the catch on the umbrella as the rain stung his skin. As he reached the car the brolly sprang open with a pop, pinching his finger, and he struggled to hold it with one hand while he wrestled the top up with the other. When the latches clicked into place, he looked down at the towel, now sodden, which he’d dropped on the bonnet, and laughed. He carried it ruefully back to Vic, and after trying unsuccessfully to wring it out with one hand, said, “Sorry.”

“I can’t believe you still have that car,” she said, so close to him now that he could see the faint dark flecks in the irises of her eyes. “You know I always hated it.”

“I know. Here’s your umbrella,” he said, hand on the catch.

“You’ll let me know, won’t you, what you find?” She touched his arm. “And Duncan, that’s not the only reason I called. I owed you something. It’s been eating at me for a long time.”