Cullen hesitated, as if about to ask a question, then said, a touch too heartily, “Right. Let me know when you’re on your way in.”

It occurred to Kincaid to be thankful he’d signed out a motor pool Rover rather than driving the Midget to the funeral – his mother-in-law had always hated that car.

How could he not have seen that Rose reminded him of his ex-wife? It was more than a fleeting physical resemblance. He thought of Vic as she had been at twenty-two or twenty-three – she’d had that same air of quiet gravity, of taking life just a little too seriously.

The realization jabbed him like a pike, opening a wound he thought he’d plastered over, and then, to his astonishment, he’d found himself thinking of Eugenia.

What must it be like to lose a child, to have every reminder of that child bring fresh pain, and yet to know that the loss of that pain was a death in itself?

When he reached Reading, he exited the motorway and drove to the quiet suburb where Vic had spent her childhood, and where Bob and Eugenia Potts still lived. He pulled up in front of the house and stopped the car.

The brick semidetached was one of identical dozens built in the sixties, when they had represented the ideal of middle-class affluence. Now, they seemed merely dreary, and stultifyingly dull. The house hadn’t changed, although the garden seemed more neglected than when he’d been there last. It was here Eugenia had brought Kit when his mother died; it was from here that Kit had run away.

Kincaid had always wondered how such an environment could have produced Vic – it had seemed as unlikely as a stone hatching a butterfly. And yet there must have been something in this household, in this family, that had nourished her uniqueness.

The net curtain at the front window twitched – identical curtains were probably twitching all down the street. It was his cue to charge the citadel or die trying. He brushed a bit of imaginary lint from his lapel – his best dark suit, along with the sober Rover, might buy him an entry point – and got out of the car.

Bob Potts opened the door before Kincaid could ring. His father-in-law’s hair had thinned to reveal shiny pink scalp, his gray cardigan bagged at the elbows. He had become an old man. “Duncan,” he said. “You shouldn’t have – this isn’t a good-”

“Bob, please. Just give me a few minutes. Let me talk to you both.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t want her upset.” Bob Potts had spent forty years trying to prevent his wife from being upset, and the effort had sucked him dry. “She-”

“Hear me out. What can it-”

“Let him in.” The voice came from the darkened room beyond the door.

As Bob stepped back, his shoulders drooping in resignation, Kincaid followed. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, then he made out his mother-in-law, seated in the worn armchair near the fire. One of the electric bars was lit, an unheard-of concession for a crisp and sunny afternoon, and the room was stuffily warm.

She, too, had aged visibly. He had not seen her since the spring, since the first letter had come from her solicitor, and his own solicitor had banned any direct contact between them. Her frame seemed to have shrunk, and the flesh sagged at her cheeks and jaws.

“Duncan. You had better sit down,” she said. Eugenia had never been one to forget the proprieties, even under duress. “I’m surprised you could find the time to drive to Reading, when you couldn’t manage to appear at Christopher’s hearing.”

Kincaid bit back a retort. He’d long ago learned the folly of trying to justify himself to Eugenia, especially where his job was concerned. “I want to talk to you both about Kit. I want to see if we can reach an understanding, without lawyers, for his sake.”

“You’ve given up your advantage, so now you want us to give up ours?” she asked, a gleam of malice in her eyes. “Why should we make any concession to you?”

“This isn’t a chess game,” he snapped, his anger flaring. “This is a child we’re talking about, and a child’s life. We need to consider what’s best for him.”

“And that has nothing to do with you. Christopher is our grandson, and only we have the right to make decisions concerning him.”

“Yes,” Kincaid said, as levelly as he could manage. “He is your grandson. But he’s my son, and I will not let you continue to make his life a misery.”

The spark of anger faded from Eugenia’s eyes, and her face settled into a frozen mask. “I will not discuss this with you. Now, get out of our house.”

“Why can’t you face the truth? Is it because you still blame me for Vic’s death?” He realized he was shouting and made an effort to lower his voice. “Eugenia, please. Listen to me. I understand how you feel. I understand that every time you look at Kit you see Vic, and that it hurts you terribly, but that you can’t bear the pain to stop because that’s all you have left of her.

“But you have to let him go. Kit is not his mother, and he deserves to live his own life. You have to let him go… and you have to let her go. It’s the only way you’ll heal.”

She stared at him in silence, her eyes hollow, and for an instant he thought he’d reached her. Then she said, “How dare you tell me what I feel? You always were an arrogant bastard. You know nothing, nothing, do you hear me?”

Bob cleared his throat, a nervous stutter of sound. “You’d better go now, Duncan. You’d better do as she says.”

Kincaid stood. “All right. But let me tell you this. I will do whatever it takes to keep my son with me – whatever it takes. And if you keep on with this, you will rue the consequences. Do you understand me?”

When neither of them replied, he turned away and let himself out of the house. As he got into the car and pulled away from the curb, he realized his hands were shaking from the flood of fury and adrenaline.

He felt oddly and surprisingly liberated, as if he’d crossed some unexpected Rubicon. He had meant it. He would do whatever it took to keep Kit with him, even if it meant sacrificing his job, or his life as he knew it.

He would never know, now, if Tony Novak had been justified in taking his daughter, but he knew that were he faced with giving Kit up to his grandparents, he would do the same.

It was evening by the time he reached Notting Hill again. Dusk was stealing round the brown house with the cherryred door, and a welcoming light shone out from the windows.

The dogs barked as he came in, then leapt at his knees, tails wagging. He greeted them and went through to the kitchen. Gemma stood by the table, still in her workclothes, going through the post.

“Where are the boys?” he asked, kissing her cheek.

“Upstairs.” She looked up at him, frowning in concern. “Where have you been? You didn’t answer your phone, and Doug said you were out.”

“I went to see Bob and Eugenia. They’re not going to budge, Gemma. They mean to take him away from us, and I won’t let them do it. I don’t care what it takes, even if it means giving up the job. If we have to go away somewhere, make a fresh start, would you-”

“You would do that for me?” It was Kit, standing in the kitchen doorway.

Kincaid turned and saw his son’s face lit with surprise, and a wondrous dawning hope. “Yes. You’re my son, Kit. I won’t let you go.”

“What…” Kit hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “What if I had the test? Would that help?”

“It might. But I thought you didn’t want-”

“And if it’s not true, if I’m not really your son, will you still-”

“Kit, do you think I love Toby any less because we don’t share genes?” He glanced at Gemma and saw that her eyes were bright with tears. “What matters is that we’re family. We stick together, okay?”

Kit took a breath and grinned. “Right. Okay. Then I’ll do it.”