“I only said I’d get in touch with an old mate of mine on the Cambridge force, see if I could have a look at the file,” he said now, and it seemed to her that his tone was deliberately casual.

Gemma unstoppered the sink in her cupboard-sized kitchen and dried her hands on a tea towel before she turned. From where she stood she could see Toby in the boxroom that served as his bedroom, rooting in a basket for a favorite picture book Kincaid had promised to read to him. “Why?” she said, trying to pitch her voice low enough so that Toby wouldn’t hear. “Why would you volunteer to do anything for her? This woman walked out on you without a word, without a note, marries another bloke as soon as the ink on the divorce papers is dry, and twelve years later she reappears and wants you to do her a favor? What are you thinking of?”

Kincaid had been sitting on the floor, playing at blocks with Toby. Now he pushed himself to his feet and looked down at her. “It’s not like that-it wasn’t like that at all. You don’t know her. Vic’s a decent person and she’s having a rough time just now, as you certainly should know. What would you have had me do?”

The direct jab stung, but she knew from his tone that she’d ventured into forbidden territory, so she smiled, trying to make light of it. “Oh, tell her to sod off, I suppose. To wherever it is ex-wives are supposed to go and never be heard from again.”

“Don’t be silly, Gemma,” he said, not sounding the least bit amused. “Look, I’ll ring Alec Byrne in Cambridge tomorrow, see if he’ll let me have an unofficial look at Lydia Brooke’s file. Then I’ll put Vic’s mind to rest, and that will be that. Let’s not quarrel about this, all right?”

“Me found it, Mummy!” shrieked Toby as he came trotting into the sitting room bearing aloft a book in a tattered dust jacket. “Alfie’s Boots.” He tugged on Duncan’s trouser leg. “Read me it, Duncan. You promised. Read me Alfie’s Boots.”