Dreaming of the bones

by Deborah Crombie

  After a few moments, the dog inched forwards on its belly and licked his outstretched fingers. “Good dog, that’s a good dog,” Kit whispered, turning his hand until he could stroke the dog’s ear, then gently touching its back. It flinched but didn’t move away, and beneath his hand he felt it shivering. “What am I going to do with you?” he said gravely, as if he expected an answer. “You can’t stay here like this, with no shelter and nothing to eat.” He stopped stroking the dog’s back as he thought, and it turned to nuzzle his hand, prompting him to begin again.

  At the touch of the dog’s cold nose against his palm resolution filled him. He dug in his jacket pocket for the twine his grandfather had been using that morning to teach him Snakes and Ladders. It was a makeshift excuse for a collar and lead, but it would have to do.

  Cambridge

  21 March 1970

  Dearest Mummy,

  Isn’t it odd how one gets attached to places? During the months with you and Nan, I dreaded coming back to Cambridge and trying to pick up the pieces of my life. It seemed only our cottage would ever feel like home to me again, and I wanted nothing more than the comfort of our domestic routine. What to make for tea… a bit of digging in the garden… a new novel from the library… these small things made up a manageable universe.

  But all the while I could feel the urge to write growing in me, as inexorable as the rising of sap in the spring. I must write, blessed or cursed, it’s what makes me who I am, and to do so I must stand on my own, however wobbly.

  But you knew this all along, didn’t you, Mummy darling? You pushed me ever so gently, until I saw it for myself. And the funny thing is that, once here again, in this house which I’d thought would be filled with ghosts, I feel at home. By some odd process it is no longer Morgan’s house, or even Morgan and Lydia’s house, but mine, and it is reassuringly familiar.

  I try to keep things simple. A schedule helps keep the black thoughts at bay, so I spend an hour or two a day pottering about the house, putting things to rights, then a couple of hours reading, then no more than two hours writing. Any longer and I find I begin to fray, but I’m learning to recognize the danger signals now.

  I haven’t ventured out much yet-too many people at once make me feel a bit fragile still, and well-meaning acquaintances tend to ask questions I’m not ready to answer. Nathan and Jean have had me to dinner, though, and treated me as though I’d never been away. We had the most ordinary and domestic of conversations, all about Alison’s nappies and the best ingredients for lentil soup. Jean is expecting again.

  You asked about Adam. He’s been his usual solicitous and generous self, but I can sense his need, and I’m afraid he wants more than I can give. I can’t afford to lose myself in any man, not ever again, and I fear I lack the necessary bit of ballast which allows other people to conduct a romance without going overboard. I dare not risk it.

  Your loving Lydia

  CHAPTER 17

  The unheard invisible lovely dead

  Lie with us in this place…

  RUPERT BROOKE,

  from “Mummia”

  He slept the deep and dreamless sleep of exhaustion, not stirring when the oblong of uncurtained window paled to gray, then to rose, then to the clear, washed blue of an April morning. When the phone rang, he fumbled for it with a vague awareness of the sound’s meaning.

  Managing to get the receiver to his ear, he mumbled, “Kincaid,” as he opened one eye and squinted at the clock. Eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. Bloody hell. This had better be good.

  “Duncan?” The voice was strained, apologetic. “This is Bob Potts. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid we have a problem and I didn’t know who else to ring.”

  Kincaid heard the panic beneath the carefully chosen words and came fully awake. “Problem? What sort of problem?”

  Potts cleared his throat. “It’s Kit. He seems to have… um… that is, he seems to have gone missing.”

  “What do you mean, missing? Surely he’s just gone out for a bit.” Kincaid sat up, and in spite of his calming words, he was aware of the sudden pounding of his heart.

  “His bed’s not been slept in. I went to wake him…” Potts paused and cleared his throat again. “I’ve looked everywhere. There’s no trace of him, and the dog’s gone, too.”

  “What dog?” Kincaid remembered Vic telling him that one of the great regrets of her childhood was that she’d never been allowed a pet. Her mother had disliked animals, and Kincaid thought it unlikely that Eugenia’s feelings on the matter had mellowed. He reached for the pad and pencil he kept by the telephone. “I think you’d better tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Kit brought a dog home from the supermarket, a stray mongrel,” said Potts. “But I really don’t see what-”

  “Just start from the beginning. I won’t have a clear picture to work with unless you tell me everything.” Kincaid tried to keep the impatience from his voice.

  “All right,” Potts agreed, still sounding reluctant. “It seems Kit found this dog behind the Tesco yesterday afternoon, while he was sheltering from a rainstorm. He made up his mind to keep it, and, of course, Eugenia… um… that is, we didn’t think it appropriate.” Potts hesitated a moment before adding, “Kit was rather upset, although we did reach a compromise.”

  “And what was that?” Kincaid asked, with some skepticism.

  “I convinced Eugenia to let him keep the dog in the garage overnight, until I could take it to the shelter this morning. I assured him that they would do their best to find it a home.”

  Some comfort that would have been, when Kit must have known that the dog’s chances of adoption and survival were slim at best. “I take it Kit wasn’t happy with your solution?”

  “Uh, no,” said Potts, and from his tone Kincaid could imagine Kit, white-faced and silent with fury. “He went to bed without his tea, so this morning I thought I’d take him his breakfast first thing-”

  “Were any of his things missing?”

  “I… I don’t know. I didn’t think of that,” Potts answered, sounding more distressed. “I looked for him outside at first-I thought he must have taken the dog for a walk, but surely he’d be back by now. It’s been more than two hours…”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  That could be good news or bad, thought Kincaid. “Did he take any money?”

  “I… I’m afraid I don’t know that, either. If you’ll hang on a moment, I’ll have a look.” There was a clatter as Potts put the phone down. Kincaid heard voices, muted at first, then Eugenia’s strident tones came more clearly. Potts came back on the line. “Eugenia had a twenty-pound note in her purse yesterday, and now it’s missing,” he said, his voice rising in competition with his wife’s.

  “How could he?” Kincaid heard Eugenia wail. “After all we’ve done. We’ve suffered enough as it is-”

  “I think it’s Kit who’s suffered quite enough,” Kincaid snapped. “You should be glad he took the money. It makes it less likely he meant to harm himself.”

  “Eugenia, for God’s sake, be quiet!” shouted Potts. Into the stunned silence that followed, he said, hesitantly, “You don’t think…”

  Regretting his outburst, Kincaid said, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sure he’s all right. But he’s shocked and grieving, and we have to consider that his behavior may not be predictable just now.”

  “What should we do?” asked Potts, making an obvious effort at control.

  Kincaid thought. The local force were not going to show much enthusiasm in looking for a boy missing only two hours, but he’d give them a ring and ask them to at least check hospital admissions. In the meantime, he’d better think of something useful for Bob Potts to do-anything at all being better than waiting. “Do you have a recent photograph of Kit?” he asked.

  “He gave us a framed copy of his school photo for Christmas,” said Potts, sounding puzzled. “But what-”

  “Take
it to the bus and train stations. Kit had enough money for a fare. Ask the ticket vendors and anyone else who looks like they’ve been hanging about for a bit. A boy with a dog should be easy to remember. I’ll give the local police a ring and ask them to keep an eye out, but at this stage we’re better off looking ourselves.”

  “You mean, you’ll help?” Potts sounded surprised and grateful, making Kincaid wonder what he’d expected.

  “Of course I’ll help.” And God forgive him if he failed Kit the same way he’d failed Vic. He should have seen this coming.

  Under a flat gray sky the road to Cambridge stretched in a now-familiar ribbon across the plains. Kincaid stayed in the fast lane, and the speedometer needle quivered as he pushed the Midget to its limit.

  As he drove, he tried to ignore the images that flashed unbidden into his mind-Kit injured, Kit as tattered and lost as the homeless runaways he saw begging outside the Hampstead tube station. He wondered if the gut-wrenching panic he fought was part of what it meant to be a parent, and with that thought he realized he’d come to accept the idea that Kit was his son.

  But beyond that realization he could not go-not yet, not until Kit was safely found. Now he needed to concentrate on the present, making sure he’d covered every contingency. He’d left Bob Potts sounding a bit stronger, then he’d gulped a cup of tea while pulling on jeans and sweatshirt and making phone calls.

  The Reading police responded as expected, but agreed to make a few inquiries. Laura Miller said she’d not heard from Kit, but would ring round and let him know immediately if Kit had contacted any other friends, and Gemma promised to wait at the flat until he called.

  Rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin as he neared the Grantchester junction, he thought out his options. He knew from experience that the first few hours in the search for a missing child were critical. If his instincts proved him wrong, he’d have to call out the big guns and order a full-scale search, working outwards from the Pottses’ Reading neighborhood.

  Kincaid left the motorway and soon reached the outskirts of Grantchester. The streets seemed eerily empty, with only the curls of smoke rising from the occasional chimney giving evidence that the village hadn’t succumbed to some Brigadoon-like enchantment. He slowed almost to a crawl as doubt assailed him. Why had he wasted precious time on such a half-baked idea? Kit couldn’t have made it here, had probably never intended to come here. He was probably in London by now, being approached by one of the pimps always on the lookout for runaways to recruit as rent boys.

  But even so, he stopped the Midget in the street, not on the gravel drive where the noise would warn anyone inside. Climbing out of the car, he closed the door softly and stood surveying the house. It seemed to him that it had already acquired a deserted look, although it had been empty only a few days, and the pink stucco looked garish against the dull sky.

  He began a careful circuit of the house, checking the doors and windows in the front, then letting himself into the back garden through the gate. The French doors onto the patio were locked, as he’d left them, but when he reached the kitchen window he noticed a slight gap in the bottom seal. His pulse quickening, he squeezed in among the shrubs and pushed up on the casement. It slid up easily, and after a moment’s consideration, Kincaid levered himself through the gap as quietly as possible.

  Dusting himself off as he looked round the kitchen, he saw no evidence of occupancy. Had he left the window unfastened, after all? Although at the time he’d thought he was fully capable, he found now that his memory of the night of Vic’s death was patchy at best.

  He checked the sitting room, finding it as he’d left it, then Vic’s office, which now showed the same evidence of police thoroughness as had her office at the English Faculty.

  Quietly mounting the stairs, he methodically eliminated first the spare bedroom, then Vic’s room. He stood in the hall, aware of the beating of his heart, aware he was postponing the obvious choice till last, so afraid was he of failure. Taking a steadying breath, he eased open the door to Kit’s room.

  After the dimness of the corridor, he was blinded by the light from the uncurtained window. He stood for a moment, blinking, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw the bed was empty, the duvet unwrinkled. His heart sank. He’d been wrong, and the time spent coming here could not be recovered.

  Then just as he turned away, he heard a sound-a rustle, and a very faint thumping. He stopped, listening, and as it came again he was able to pinpoint it. Slowly, he crossed the room and edged round the end of Kit’s bed, until he could see into the space between the bed and the wall. A small, shaggy dog lay on a crumpled quilt, head on its paws as it looked alertly at him, while its tail gently thumped the floor.

  And beneath the quilt lay Kit, eyes closed, one arm thrown over his head as if he’d been dreaming. He was still wearing his anorak, and his chest rose and fell in a deep and regular rhythm as he breathed through his open mouth.

  The wave of giddiness that swept through Kincaid made his knees suddenly weak. He sat down on the bed and reached out to pat the dog, which thumped its tail a bit harder. “Some watchdog you are,” he said with a laugh that sounded suspiciously shaky, and at the sound of his voice Kit stirred and opened his eyes. Kincaid saw the beginning of a smile as Kit recognized him, then alarm as he realized he’d been discovered.

  Kit pushed himself up, trying to escape the entangling folds of the quilt and the dog’s weight on his legs. “I’m not going back,” he said as he managed to free himself.

  “Hullo, Kit.” Kincaid smiled at him. “What on earth are you doing down there?”

  Squatting now, Kit leaned back against the wall and regarded him with a puzzled expression. After a moment, he said, “Hiding. I thought if they came for me, they might not think to look behind the bed. I told Tess to be quiet.”

  “She’s a very well-behaved dog. It was only her tail wagging that gave you away. Why did you call her Tess?”

  Kit reached out to stroke the dog. “Because I found her behind the Tesco.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Kincaid. “Silly of me not to twig. Have either of you had anything to eat?”

  “Beef burgers. The second lorry driver bought us both beef burgers. But that was a long time ago.”

  “I take it you hitchhiked your way here, then?” asked Kincaid. Thank God Kit had come through his journey unharmed, but this was not the time to lecture him on the danger of riding with strangers.

  “Four lorries,” said Kit with a touch of pride. “We walked from the motorway, though. I was afraid someone I knew might stop if I tried to thumb it.”

  “I’ll bet you’re hungry again,” Kincaid said easily. “There’s a cafe not far from here on the motorway. What do you say I buy you a real lorry driver’s fry up? We’ll get something for Tess, too.”

  Kit tensed and gathered the dog to him. “I told you, I’m not going back to Reading. If you try to make me, I’ll just run away again.”

  Watching the stubborn set of Kit’s mouth, Kincaid wondered if he looked like that when he dug his heels in over something. Like father, like son. And if that were the case, the best way to win the boy’s cooperation was to treat him as honestly as he would like to be treated himself. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I understand how you feel, Kit, but you’ve got to be reasonable about this. You know you can’t stay here on your own-”

  “My dad will come back. I know he will, and then I can stay-”

  “That may be true, but in the meantime, you can’t stay here for more than a few hours before someone else comes looking for you-either the police or your grandparents. And you know your grandfather’s frantic. You don’t want him worrying about you.”

  “She won’t care what’s happened to me. All she cares about is her bloody carpets.”

  Kincaid sighed. “Does that make your grandfather’s feelings any less important?”

  Kit stared at him, then his mouth relaxed and he gave a little shrug. “I suppose not. But I can’t go bac
k. They won’t let me keep Tess.”

  “I promise you we’ll try to work something out. And I promise I won’t do anything without discussing it with you first. But we have to start somewhere, and it seems to me that breakfast is a pretty good beginning. What do you say?”

  For a long moment, Kit didn’t respond, then he gave an infinitesimal nod and said, “What happened to your eye?”

  Once seated in the clean anonymity of the Little Chef, Kincaid and Kit ordered eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, and fried bread, to be washed down with a pot of tea. They’d left Tess in the car with the small blanket Kit had found for her, and she settled down to wait with the resignation of a dog accustomed to it.

  At the cottage Kit had washed his hands and brushed his hair, then gathered his things up without further complaint. When he was ready, he’d produced a spare key from the drawer in the kitchen.

  “Did I not latch the window?” Kincaid had asked, still a bit concerned over his lapse.

  “The lock doesn’t quite catch,” said Kit. “You wouldn’t have noticed. But I always get in that way when I forget my key. It makes Mum fur-” He’d stopped, stricken, and Kincaid had hustled him out of the cottage with an arm round his shoulders.

  This time Kincaid kept the key, and they had driven to the Little Chef in silence.

  Their tea arrived, hot and strong, and as they stirred their cups, Kincaid glanced at his watch and pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. “I’m going to ring Gemma and ask her to let your granddad know you’re all right. No, wait,” he added as Kit started to protest, “that’s all for now. We’re going to take this one step at a time. Fair enough?”

  Kit gave him a nod, and Kincaid wished he were really as confident as he was attempting to sound. What he hadn’t told Kit was that he didn’t know what to do next. The only thing of which he felt sure was that returning Kit to his grandparents right now might mean losing him for good.