Dreaming of the Bones

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