Free Where Memories Lie by Deborah Crombie

groaned as the horrible buzzing noise went on.
    “What?” she mumbled when she managed to get the phone right side up and pressed to her ear.
    “Melody? Are you okay?” Gemma’s voice.
    Melody came fully awake, ignoring the pain that shot through her head as she sat fully upright. “Boss. Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right. What’s up?” Her father had called a command performance yesterday at the Kensington town house, as a result of which, Melody, normally a moderate drinker at most, had come home and polished off the better part of a bottle of red wine.
    “Could you handle the incoming for me this morning? Just for a bit. I’ve some personal business. Shouldn’t take long.”
    Frowning, Melody answered, “Okay. No problem. I’ll be in as soon as I can.” Delegating wasn’t one of Gemma’s strong points, nor was it like her to skive off work, especially on a Monday morning. Tentatively, Melody said, “Is there anything else I can—”
    “No. I’ll ring you as soon as I’m on my way back to the station. And thanks.”
    The mobile went dead. Slowly, Melody disconnected and sat up, throwing back the duvet. Pain shot through her head and she winced.But it was nothing that a cocktail of aspirin and paracetamol and a hot shower wouldn’t fix, and it was a minor distraction compared to the warm glow she felt knowing Gemma depended on her.
     
    Kincaid had volunteered to get the children off to school, giving Gemma an early start. It was a duty they rotated, depending on whose workload was most demanding, but as Notting Hill Police Station was a short walk for Gemma, and Toby’s infant school just next door, the morning routine fell to Gemma more often than not.
    In truth, Kincaid enjoyed the extra hour with Toby and Kit. Although he tried to spend some time on his own with the boys on the weekends, he’d found there was a special closeness about mornings in the kitchen.
    He’d made soft-boiled eggs and toast, with juice for Toby and hot milk with a splash of coffee for Kit. It was a house rule that the boys sat at the table, even if only for five minutes, and he wasn’t sure if the restriction made them eat at light speed or if they would inhale their food under any circumstances.
    This morning, however, Toby had dawdled, picking pieces from his eggshell, then dipping them in the yolk and drawing on the plate. Kincaid suspected he’d picked up on Gemma’s worry, even though he’d been told only that Gran wasn’t feeling well. “Enough,” Kincaid said to him. “Go wash and get your lessons.” These morning boys, freshly scrubbed and brushed and in their school uniforms, looked slightly alien to him, like someone else’s children. By afternoon their hair would be tousled, their shirttails half out, their ties askew, and they would look comfortably themselves again.
    When Toby had slipped from the table and gone pounding up the stairs, Kincaid scooped out the remainder of his egg, mixed it with the toast crusts, and set it on the floor for the dogs.
    “Gemma would throw a wobbly,” said Kit, taking his cornflakes bowl to the sink.
    “I’ll bet she does the same thing when I’m not here.”
    Kit gave him a half smile. “I’m not supposed to tell you.” He lingered while Kincaid rinsed his own plate, and when Kincaid looked up he said tentatively, “About Gran. Is she going to be all right?”
    The fear of loss always hovered very near the surface for Kit, and although Kincaid would have preferred not to worry him, they’d had to tell him all that they knew.
    Kincaid knew he couldn’t sugarcoat it. “We’ll know more after this morning. But the disease is treatable, and Gran’s a fighter.” He tried to block out Gemma’s description of her mum on yesterday afternoon’s visit.
    “I’ve been looking it up,” said Kit. “Leukemia. It’s cancer of the blood and bone marrow, and it can spread all over the body, even into the brain. She’ll need radiation and chemotherapy, and if those