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.”