Written in Bone

by Simon Beckett

  78

  Simon Beckett

  They weren’t buried now.

  I carried on walking. The turf underfoot became wetter and more broken as I blundered into a peat bog. My teeth were chattering as I splashed noisily across. Either it had grown colder or my core temperature was dropping despite my efforts. Both, probably. My shoulder was on fire, lancing me with white heat at every step. I’d lost track of time but I was tiring quickly, becoming careless with fatigue. Another noise came from off to one side, the sound of something moving through the grass. I spun towards it and went crashing down. Agony flared through my injured shoulder as it bore the full brunt of my weight.

  I must have passed out. When I came round I was lying face down, the rain pattering hypnotically on my hood. I could taste the loamy stink of peat in my mouth. Still only semi-conscious, I found myself thinking about all the countless dead animals, insects and vegetation it was made from: millennia of rot compressed into a petrochemical sludge. I spat it out and tried to push myself up, but the effort was too much. Water had seeped inside my coat, chilling me to the bone. I was shuddering from the cold, my strength gone. I collapsed back into the mud. Of all the bloody stupid ways to die. It was so absurd it was almost funny. I’m sorry, Jenny. She ’d been mad enough just because I came out here. She was going to be furious when she found out I’d let it kill me.

  But the attempt at gallows humour failed miserably. Lying there, I felt anger as well as sadness. So that’s it, is it? I goaded myself. You’re just going to give up?

  It was then, when it could have gone either way, that I saw the light.

  At first I thought I was imagining it. It was only a spark of yellow, dancing in the blackness ahead of me. But when I moved my head the light remained in the same place. I shut my eyes, opened them. The light was still there. I felt a surge of hope as I remembered Strachan’s house. That was closer than the village. Perhaps I’d wandered in the right direction after all. Part of me knew even then that the light was too high to be com-

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  ing from the house, but I didn’t care. It was something to aim for. Without even thinking about it, I crawled to my feet and began to stagger towards it.

  The light hung above me, but how far away I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The yellow glow was the only thing in the universe, drawing me towards it like a moth. It steadily grew larger. Now I could see that it wasn’t constant, but flickered to some unheard rhythm. I was barely aware of the ground starting to rise towards it. It climbed still more, became steeper. I was using my one good arm to help pull me uphill, sometimes sinking to a crawl on my knees before stumbling upright again. But the light was closer. I fixed on it, shutting out everything else. Then it was right in front of me. Not a car, not a house. Just a small, untended fire in front of a ruined stone hut. As disappointment started to filter through my daze, I began to take in what the firelight revealed. All around me were untidy mounds of rocks, and the sight of them stirred some dim connection. They weren’t natural formations, I realized. They were burial cairns.

  I could remember both Brody and Strachan mentioning them. And, remembering that, I knew I was even more lost than I’d thought.

  I’d wandered all the way out to the mountain.

  I swayed on my feet, the last of my reserves gone. As my vision swam, I became aware of movement in the mouth of the ruined hut. I stared, too numb and exhausted to move, as a hooded figure slowly emerged from inside. It stepped into the firelight, eyes reflecting the flames as they stared at me from beneath its hood. Then the fire seemed to grow dark, and the night spun me off into darkness.

  CH APTER 9

  THERE WAS NO wind. That was the first thought that came to me. No wind, no drumming of rain.

  Just silence.

  I opened my eyes. I was in a bed. Muted daylight filtered through pale curtains, revealing a large, white room. White walls, white ceiling, white sheets. My first thought was that it was a hospital, but then I realized most hospitals didn’t run to duvets and double beds. Or en suite glass shower rooms, come to that. And the raffia bedside table looked as if it had come straight from the pages of an interiors magazine. But just then the fact that I didn’t know where I was didn’t bother me. The bed was warm and soft. I lay there for a while, my mind running over the last events I could remember. They came back to me surprisingly easily. The cottage. Abandoning the car. Falling in the dark, then heading for the distant fire. That was where it grew hazy. The memories of stumbling up the mountainside and finding myself at the ancient burial cairns, and of the figure that had emerged from the ruined hut,

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  had the surreal quality of a dream. I had disjointed images of being carried along in pitch blackness, crying out as my shoulder was jolted. My shoulder . . .

  I drew back the duvet, registering that I was naked but more concerned with the sling that strapped my left arm to my chest. A professional job, by the look of it. I cautiously flexed the shoulder and winced as bruised ligaments protested. It hurt like hell, but I could tell it was no longer dislocated. Someone must have put it back, although I’d no memory of it. Which was odd, because having a dislocated shoulder shot back into joint isn’t the sort of experience you’re likely to forget.

  I looked at my wrist and saw that my watch was missing. I’d no idea what time it was, but it was daylight outside. I felt a growing sense of alarm. Christ, how long had I been out? I’d still not told Wallace—or anyone—that we were dealing with a murder. And I’d promised Jenny I’d call her the night before. She ’d be going frantic wondering what had happened to me.

  I had to get back. I threw aside the duvet and was looking round for my clothes when the door opened and Grace Strachan came in. She was even more striking than I remembered, dark hair tied back to reveal the perfect oval of her face, fitted black trousers and cream sweater revealing a figure that was slim but sensuous. When she saw me she smiled.

  ‘Hello, Dr Hunter. I was just coming to check if you were awake.’

  At least now I knew where I was. It was only when her eyes flicked down that I remembered that I was naked. I hurriedly covered myself with the duvet.

  The dark eyes were amused. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Confused. How did I get here?’

  ‘Michael brought you back last night. He found you on the mountain. Or, rather, you found him.’

  So it had been Strachan who’d rescued me. I remembered the figure emerging into the firelight. ‘That was your husband I saw out there?’

  She gave a smile. ‘One of his little hobbies, I’m afraid. I’m glad 82

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  I’m not the only one who thinks it ’s odd. Still, good job for you he was.’

  I couldn’t argue with that, but I was still worrying about how long I’d been asleep. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly half past three.’

  The day was more than half gone. I cursed, silently. ‘Can I use your phone? I need to let people know what’s happened.’

  ‘Already done. Michael called the hotel after he brought you back and spoke to Sergeant Fraser, I think it was. He told him you’d had an accident but that you were more or less in one piece.’

  That was something, I supposed. But I still needed to get hold of Wallace. And Jenny, to let her know I was all right. If she was still speaking to me.

  ‘I’d still like to use the phone, if that ’s OK.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll let Michael know you’re awake. He can bring it up with him.’ Grace arched an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. ‘I’ll tell him to bring your clothes, as well.’

  With that she went out. I lay in bed impatiently, chafed by the thought of the lost hours. But I didn’t have to wait long before there was a rap on the door.

  Michael Strachan came in, carrying my neatly washed and pressed clothes. My wallet, watch and useless mobile were stacked neatly on top of t
hem. He also had a newspaper tucked under one arm, but he kept hold of that.

  ‘Grace said you might be needing these,’ he said, grinning as he set my things on a chair by the bed. He reached into his pocket and took out a cordless phone. ‘And this, too.’

  I wanted to make the calls straight away, but restrained myself. If not for this man I’d probably be dead. ‘Thanks. And thank you for what you did last night.’

  ‘Forget it. I was glad to help. Although I must admit you scared me half to death when you suddenly appeared like that.’

  ‘It was mutual,’ I said, dryly. ‘How did you get me back?’

  He shrugged. ‘I managed to prop you upright most of the way down, but for the last leg I’m afraid it was a fireman’s lift.’

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  ‘You carried me?’

  ‘Only as far as the car. I don’t always take it, but I was glad I had, believe me.’ He said it dismissively, as if carrying a grown man even a short distance was nothing. ‘So how’s the shoulder now?’

  I flexed it warily. It was still painful, but at least I could move it without passing out. ‘Better than it was.’

  ‘Bruce had the devil of a job popping it back. If not for him, we ’d probably have had you airlifted to a hospital. Or stuck you on Iain Kinross’s ferry, and I don’t think you’d have enjoyed a sea voyage in the state you were in.’

  ‘Bruce . . . ?’

  ‘Bruce Cameron. He ’s the schoolteacher, but he ’s also a trained nurse. Looks after the medical clinic.’

  ‘Sounds like a useful combination.’

  A look I couldn’t quite read crossed his face. ‘He has his moments. You’ll meet him in a while yourself. Grace called him to say you were awake, so he offered to come out to see how you were. Oh, and your colleagues found Ellen’s car this morning and got it back on the road. It isn’t damaged, you’ll be glad to hear. What happened? Swerve to miss a sheep?’

  ‘Not a sheep, no. A golden retriever.’

  Strachan’s face fell. ‘Oscar? Oh, Christ, you’re joking! I’d taken him out with me, but he ’d wandered off. God, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I didn’t hit him.’ Curiosity temporarily got the better of my impatience. ‘Look, don’t think I’m not grateful, but . . . what the hell were you doing up there?’

  He smiled, a little shamefaced. ‘I camp there every now and then. Grace thinks I’m mad, but when I was a kid back in South Africa my father used to take me out on safari. You get the same sense of space and isolation on the mountain that I remember from that. I’m not religious or anything, but there ’s something . . . almost spiritual about it.’

  This was a side of Strachan I wouldn’t have suspected. ‘Pretty lonely, though. And cold.’

  He grinned. ‘I wrap up, and the solitude ’s all part of it. Besides, the broch’s a good place to think.’

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  ‘ Broch?’

  ‘The stone hut I was in. It ’s an old watchtower. I love the idea that someone would have been sitting up there by a fire two thousand years ago. I like to think I’m keeping the tradition. And those cairns are even older. The people buried in them would have been lords or clan leaders, and now all that’s left is a few piles of stone. Puts things in perspective, don’t you think?’

  Abruptly, he grew embarrassed.

  ‘Anyhow, so much for my dark secrets. Here, I brought you this.’

  He handed me the newspaper he ’d brought with him. It was the previous evening’s Lewis Gazette, folded open on the second page. A headline over Maggie Cassidy’s byline announced Fire Death Mystery on Runa. The story gave a lurid account of the discovery of the burned body, light on facts but heavy on speculation. Predictably, she ’d made reference to spontaneous human combustion, and I was referred to as ‘esteemed forensic scientist Dr David Hunter.’

  It could have been worse, I supposed. At least there were no photographs.

  ‘It came over on this morning’s ferry,’ Strachan said. ‘I thought you’d want to see it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ But the article had rekindled my sense of urgency. ‘I hate to ask after all you’ve done, but could you give me a lift back to the village?’

  ‘Of course.’ He paused. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Fine. I just need to get back.’

  He nodded, but I don’t think he was convinced. ‘I’ll be downstairs. Help yourself to the shower.’

  I waited until he ’d gone, then grabbed the phone. Wallace ’s number was logged in my mobile. I retrieved it and called it on the landline. Come on, answer, I urged him silently. This time he did. ‘Yes, Dr Hunter?’ he said, with the air of someone with better things to do. I kept it short. ‘She was murdered.’

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  There was a beat while that registered. Then he swore. ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘She ’d been hit hard enough for the back of her skull to be cracked but not broken. The fire made it blow out at that point, which is why I didn’t spot it sooner.’

  ‘Could she have done it in a fall? Panicking when she caught fire, perhaps?’

  ‘A fall could have caused it, but an injury like that would have either killed her outright or at the very least left her unconscious. She wouldn’t have been capable of moving afterwards. In which case the body would still be lying on its back, not face down like hers is.’

  I heard him sigh. ‘There ’s no way you could have made a mistake?’

  I took a moment to reply, not trusting my temper. ‘You wanted my opinion, you’ve got it. Somebody killed her and then set fire to the body. This was no accident.’

  There was a pause. I could almost hear him thinking through the logistics of pulling teams away from the train crash and getting them out here.

  ‘All right,’ he said, all business now, ‘I’ll have a support team and SOC out with you first thing tomorrow morning.’

  I glanced out of the window. The light was already fading. ‘Can’t they be here sooner?’

  ‘Not a chance. They’ll have to get out to Stornoway first, then go from there to Runa. That ’s going to take time. You’ll just have to sit tight until tomorrow.’

  I didn’t like it, but there was nothing more I could do. After Wallace had ended the call, I dialled Jenny’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail. I left a message telling her I was sorry for not calling, that I was all right, and I’d call her again later. It seemed inadequate and unsatisfying. I’d have given anything to be able to see her just then. But that wasn’t going to happen either.

  It was only as I put down the phone that I realized I’d automatically called Wallace first instead of Jenny. Wondering uncomfortably 86

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  what that said about my priorities, I threw back the duvet and went to get ready.

  The shower felt wonderful, hot water easing the ache in my shoulder and sluicing away the dirt and stink from the previous night. The sling was semi-rigid, made from Velcro, foam and plastic, so I was at least able to take it off. But dressing with only one hand was harder than I thought. I could barely move my left arm at all, and by the time I’d managed to pull on my thick sweater I felt as though I’d had a hard work-out at the gym.

  I went out into the hallway. The big house had been given a thorough makeover. The white walls were newly plastered, the floor laid with coir matting instead of carpet.

  At the top of the stairs, a large picture window looked down on to a small, sandy cove. It was flanked by cliffs, and steps ran down to where a sleek yacht was moored at the end of a wooden jetty. Even in the shelter of the cove, its mast rocked violently in the heavy chop. In the failing light I made out two figures standing on the jetty. One of them was pointing out into the cove, the black coat identifying him as Strachan. I guessed the other must be Bruce, the nurse turned schoolteacher.

  Downstairs, a huge Turkish rug covered most of the entrance
hall floor. On the back wall was a large abstract oil painting, a swirl of purples and blues shot through with indigo slashes that was both striking and subtly unsettling. I’d almost gone past before I noticed that the name at the bottom corner was Grace Strachan’s. The strains of Spanish guitar music were coming from a room at the far end. I went in and found myself in a bright and airy kitchen, redolent with spices. Copper pans hung from the ceiling, while others bubbled on a black Aga.

  Grace was next to it, deftly chopping vegetables. She gave me a smile over her shoulder.

  ‘I see you managed to dress OK.’

  ‘Eventually.’

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  She brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes with her wrist. Even in a plain black apron she looked almost ridiculously sensual. The effect was all the more powerful because it seemed so unconscious.

  ‘Michael won’t be a minute. He ’s just taken Bruce down to the cove to show him his latest project. Bruce who mended your arm last night?’ she said, making it a question.

  ‘Yes, your husband told me. He did a good job.’

  ‘He ’s a gem. Offered to come up to check on you as soon as school finished. Can I get you a drink, or something to eat? You must be famished.’

  It wasn’t until then that I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since the previous day.

  Grace seized on my hesitation. ‘How about a sandwich? Or an omelette?’

  ‘Really, I don’t—’

  ‘An omelette it is, then.’

  She poured olive oil into a frying pan and deftly broke three eggs into a bowl as it heated.

  ‘Michael says you’re from London,’ she said, briskly beating them.

  ‘That ’s right.’

  ‘I haven’t been there in ages. I keep trying to get Michael to go, but he ’s a terrible stick-in-the-mud. Hates being prised off the island. Won’t go any further than Lewis, which isn’t exactly a cultural Mecca, let me tell you.’

  Stick-in-the-mud wasn’t a phrase I’d have associated with her husband. But then, as I’d found out, he was a man of surprises.