Dreaming Of The Bones

“Lie down on the ground,” said Kincaid slowly. “Put your hands behind your back. If you don’t do as I say, now, I will shoot you.”

For a moment, Darcy stood, and Kincaid tensed, preparing for the recoil of the gun.

Then Darcy dropped heavily to his knees. “I need help, medical attention,” he said. “He shot me. I’m injured.”

“Down!” Kincaid shouted, his anger and frustration breaking on a rush of adrenaline. “I don’t care if you bleed to death, you son of a bitch. Do you understand that?” He motioned with the gun, and Darcy lowered himself to the ground with a groan. “Gemma—”

She’d reached Darcy. “I’ve got a scarf.” Quickly, she knotted his hands together, then ran to Nathan.

Kincaid heard her whisper, “Oh, dear God, please …” as she knelt beside him.

“Is he breathing?”

“I think so. Yes.” She struggled to lift Nathan’s head from the water. “But he’s covered with blood—”

There was a racking, retching cough, then Nathan’s voice gasping, “His. It’s his. I shot him.”

Then Kincaid heard the screech of tires and the slamming of car doors, and a moment later he saw the flicker of torches moving through the trees. Lowering the gun, he said, “It seems the cavalry has arrived.”

“I didn’t know how much I wanted to live until he had his hands round my throat,” said Nathan, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. They sat round the table in his kitchen, he and Adam, Kincaid and Gemma, drinking herbal tea.

The medics had dressed the worst of his cuts and abrasions, but he’d refused to go to hospital. “I thought I wanted to die,” he continued after a sip of tea. “I thought I’d shoot him, then shoot myself. But I failed on both counts.”

Gemma touched her slender fingers to the back of his hand. “You didn’t fail, Nathan. You didn’t need Darcy’s death on your conscience. And it wouldn’t have made Vic’s death, or Lydia’s, any less a waste.”

“We all failed,” said Adam. “We failed ourselves, and we failed Darcy. He wasn’t always so wicked. I don’t think he meant to kill Verity. But she refused him, and he couldn’t control his temper.” Pausing, he eased his finger between the clerical collar and his neck. “We’ll never know what he might have become if we’d held him accountable for what happened that night.”

“You will hold him accountable now,” said Kincaid.

After a preliminary assessment, the medics had taken Darcy to Addenbrooks, accompanied by police guard. He’d suffered considerable blood loss from the shot embedded in the right side of his face, neck, and shoulder, but he’d been protesting his innocence and threatening legal action even as they closed the ambulance doors.

“Your testimony will be essential to the prosecution’s case.” Kincaid looked from Nathan to Adam. “But it will mean revealing your own parts in the cover-up of Verity Whitecliff’s death, regardless of the personal consequences.”

“I think we’ve had quite enough of secrets,” said Adam.

Nathan looked up at them, his eyes dark. “What chance have you of getting a conviction on nothing but our word? There won’t be any evidence left of how Verity died or that he killed her.”

Kincaid glanced at Gemma. “We can only recommend to the Crown Prosecution Service, but my guess is that they’ll charge him with Vic’s and Verity’s deaths, and use Lydia’s for evidence of system in Vic’s case. We’ve the best chance of finding physical evidence in Vic’s case, and in Verity’s the court can rule based solely on the testimony of witnesses. And that means you and Adam.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” said Nathan, then he shook his head. “If I’d only known what Vic suspected …”

“We’re all going to have to live with our ifs,” Kincaid said heavily, and rose. “I’d advise you to get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

They said good-bye to Nathan and Adam at the door. When Kincaid shook Nathan’s hand, he felt the kinship of those who pass through the eye of the same needle. They had loved Vic, and she was gone.

He followed Gemma slowly to the car and handed her the keys, suddenly too exhausted to drive. Climbing in beside her, he slumped in his seat, but before she could start the engine he reached for her hand and held it between his.

“I thought you were going to shoot him,” said Gemma, turning to him.

“So did I.”

“I daresay he deserved it.” She searched his face. “Why didn’t you?”

He thought for a moment, trying to formulate an answer in words. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “I suppose because it would’ve meant accepting violence as a solution.” He traced his fingers lightly over Gemma’s, then looked up into her eyes. “And then what would have separated me from Darcy?”

Cambridge

1 September 1986

Darling Mummy,