Dreaming of the Bones

clamped his hands tighter on the wheel to stop them from trembling, and tried not to think at all.

    He saw the blue Hash of the emergency lights as he made the turn into the High Street. Two patrol cars were parked up on the curb in front of Vic’s cottage, but there was no sign of an ambulance. Kincaid pulled the Rover up into the graveled drive and stopped it where he had parked on Sunday. On Sunday, he thought, Vic had been fine on Sunday.
    Slowly now, he got out of the car and shut the door. His knees felt insubstantial as he stepped deliberately onto the gravel, and he took a breath to clear the sudden swimming in his head. Vertigo. What a solid word for such an unanchored feeling. The door opened and a dark form appeared, silhouetted against the light. Vic. No, not Vic. Alec Byrne, crunching across the gravel to meet him.
    Byrne reached him, touched his arm. ” Duncan . There was no need for you to come all this way. We’ve everything in hand.”
    ”Where is she?”
    ”I’m afraid they’ve taken her to the morgue,” Byrne said gently. ”The medics pronounced her dead on scene.” He searched Kincaid’s face. ”Come on. We’d better get you a cup of tea.”
    Morgue. No, not yet. He wasn’t ready to think of it, not yet.
    Kincaid allowed himself to be led into the house, then through to the sitting room, while the detached part of his mind commented on how odd it was to be the one ministered to. Byrne directed him to sit on the sofa, and a constable brought him hot, sweet tea. He drank it obediently, thirstily, and after a few moments his mind began to function again.
    ”What happened?” he asked Byrne. ”Where was she? You’re sure it was—”
    ”Her son found her in the kitchen when he came home from sports. Unconscious, or perhaps already dead—we can’t be sure,”
    ”Kit?”
    ”You know the boy?” asked Byrne. ”We’ve not been able to contact the father, and he ought to have someone with him he knows.”
    Kit, dear God. He hadn’t even thought of Kit. And Kit had found her. ”Where is he?”
    ”In the kitchen with Constable Malley. I believe she’s made him some tea as well.”
    ”In the kitchen?” Kincaid repeated, and all the things he’d pushed out of his mind came rushing back. Lydia Brooke found dead in her study, of apparent heart failure. A suicide note that wasn’t. Candles and music and gardening clothes. He stood up. ”You’re not treating it as a crime scene?” Byrne looked at him warily. ”I really don’t see that it’s necessary, under the circumstances—”
    ”You don’t know the circumstances!” Kincaid shouted at him, then made an effort to lower his voice. ”Don’t let them touch anything until after the postmortem. God knows what damage has been done already.” His anger came as a relief, making a clean burn through the fog in his head.
    ”Look, Duncan ,” Byrne said, standing to face him, ”I realize you’re upset, but this is not your jurisdiction, and I’ll handle a routine death in the way I see fit—”
    Kincaid stabbed a finger at him. ”What if you’re wrong, Alec? Can you afford to be wrong?”
    They stared at each other, both flushed, then after a moment Byrne relaxed and said, ”All right. I’ll humor you. After all, what do I have to lose?”
    ”I’m going to see Kit,” said Kincaid. ”And you can keep everyone else out of the bloody room.”

    Kit sat huddled in the near kitchen chair, his back to Kincaid, while a female constable occupied the other.
    ”We’ve notified the grandparents,” Byrne said in Kincaid’s ear as they stood in the doorway. ”They’re on their way.”
    ”Vic’s parents?”
    ”Yes. Her mother was quite... distraught.” Byrne jerked his head at the constable and she rose, coming to join them. ”We’ll wait for you in the sitting room,” he said to Kincaid, and they went out, closing the door behind them.
    The room looked ordinary, domestic, unmarred by what had happened in it. Kincaid walked round the small table and slid into the chair the constable had vacated. ”Hullo, Kit.”
    The boy looked up. ”You came,” he said with a sort of distant puzzlement, and so blank was his face with shock that Kincaid wasn’t sure he’d have recognized him had he passed him on the street.
    ”Yes.”
    ”I couldn’t wake her,” Kit said, as if continuing a conversation. ”I thought she was asleep, but I couldn’t wake her. I rang nine-nine-nine.” The cup of tea before him was