Written in Bone

by Simon Beckett

  I’d been looking at a mirror image.

  With growing excitement, I magnified the teeth of the young woman in the photograph again. Now her upper left incisor had a V-shaped notch that exactly matched the chip in the skull’s. And both lower right canines were crooked, overlapping the tooth next to them to an identical degree.

  I’d found a match.

  For the first time, I allowed myself to read the description that accompanied the photograph. The young woman’s name was Janice Donaldson. She was twenty-six years old, a prostitute, alcoholic and drug addict who had gone missing from Stornoway five weeks ago. There had been no widespread search, no news bulletins. Just one more open file, another soul who had dropped through the cracks. I looked at her picture again, the electronically frozen smile. She 146

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  was full-faced, with round cheeks and the beginnings of a double chin. Even given her drug addiction, she was a young woman who was always going to be plump. Lots of body fat to burn. It would still have to be confirmed by dental records and fingerprints, but I didn’t have any doubt that I’d found the murdered woman.

  ‘Hello, Janice,’ I said.

  As I was staring at my laptop screen, Duncan was huddled in the camper van trying to concentrate on his criminology textbook. It wasn’t easy. The wind was worse than ever. Even though the van was parked in the lee of the cottage, which took the brunt of the gale ’s force, it was still being battered mercilessly. The constant buffeting was unsettling as well as uncomfortable. Duncan had thought about turning off the paraffin heater in case the camper blew over, but he ’d decided against it. He ’d take his chances on catching fire rather than freeze to death.

  So he ’d tried to close his mind to the way it was rocking, and done his best to focus on his book as the rain drilled against the metal roof. But when he ’d found himself rereading the same paragraph for the third time, he finally accepted it wasn’t going to happen. He closed the book with a sigh. The fact was it wasn’t only the gale that was bothering him. He was still fretting over the idea that had occurred to him earlier. He knew he was being stupid, that the notion was completely ridiculous. But now he ’d started to wonder about it, he couldn’t put it from his mind. That overactive imagination of his again. The question was, what did he do about it? Tell someone? In which case, who? He ’d come close to mentioning it to Dr Hunter earlier, but thought better of it. There was always Brody, of course. Or Fraser. Aye, right. Duncan was well aware of the detective sergeant’s failings as a police officer. The whisky smell on his breath in a morning was an embarrassment. Disgusting. It was as though he thought people wouldn’t notice, or no longer cared. Duncan’s father had told him about some officers who’d burned out, their ambition

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  reduced to keeping their nose clean until they could retire with a full pension. He could have been describing Fraser. Duncan wondered if he ’d always been like that, or if he ’d gradually sunk into his current state of disillusionment. He ’d heard the stories about him, of course; some he ’d believed, others he was more sceptical about. But he ’d always liked to think there was still a halfway decent police officer buried beneath the alcohol cheeks. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. Here they were, landed at the sharp end of a murder investigation— right at the sharp end—and Fraser still acted as though it were an inconvenience. Duncan didn’t see it like that at all. Duncan thought it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.

  The recognition made him feel a little guilty. A woman had died, after all. Was it right to feel so keyed up about it? But this was his job, he rationalised. This was what he ’d joined the police for, not filling in parking forms, or sorting out drunken neighbour squabbles. He knew there was evil out there—not in the biblical sense, perhaps, but that was what it amounted to all the same. He wanted to be able to look it in the eye, and make it flinch. Make a difference. Aye, and I can imagine what Fraser would say about that .

  The smile slowly faded from his face. So what was he going to do?

  A flash from outside caught his peripheral vision. He looked out of the window, waiting for it to come again. It didn’t. Lightning? But there was no accompanying roll of thunder. He turned off the light so that the camper van was in darkness except for the low blue flame of the paraffin heater. He could make out the dark shape of the cottage, but nothing else. He hesitated. It could have been sheet lightning, he thought. That didn’t make any noise, did it? Or perhaps his eyes were just playing tricks.

  Then again, it could have been someone outside with a torch. The reporter again? Maggie Cassidy? He hoped not. Although part of him felt quite keyed up at the prospect, he ’d believed her when 148

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  she ’d said she wouldn’t try anything again. Naive or not, he ’d feel let down if she ’d broken her promise. But if it wasn’t her, then who? Duncan didn’t think there was enough left in the cottage for anyone to bother with, not unless they brought a JCB to dig out the rubble first.

  But this was a murder inquiry now. He wasn’t going to take the chance. He considered radioing Fraser, but not for long. He could imagine the sergeant’s withering response, and he ’d no wish to subject himself to it. Not without checking it out first. Pulling on his coat, he picked up the Maglite and went outside. The force of the wind almost jerked him from his feet. Closing the door as quietly as he could, he paused for a moment, listening. The wind made it impossible to hear. And it was too dark now to see anything without a torch. He switched it on and quickly shone the beam around. It picked out only thrashing grass and the lonely shell of the cottage.

  The wind quickly stripped the camper van’s heat from him. And he ’d forgotten to put on his gloves. Shivering, he approached the cottage, playing the torch beam on its doorway. He ’d resealed it earlier—something Fraser hadn’t bothered to do—and the tape showed no sign of being touched. He shone the torch inside, satisfying himself that no one was in there, and then began to circle round the ruined walls. Nothing. Gradually, he allowed himself to relax. It must have been sheet lightning after all. Aye, either that or your imagination. He completed his circuit, feet whispering through the thick grass. When he reached the doorway again his main concern was how bloody cold he was. His fingers were going numb on the torch’s steel casing. Even so, he forced himself to shine the beam around one last time before heading back for the camper van. Reaching it, he hesitated, suddenly struck by the thought that someone might be in there waiting.

  If they are, I hope they’ve got the kettle on. Gripping the heavy Maglite, he pushed open the door.

  The camper van was empty. The hissing blue glow from the

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  paraffin heater gave out a welcoming heat. Duncan hurried inside gratefully, and shut the door. Rubbing his icy hands to get some feeling back, he switched on the light and lifted the kettle to see if there was enough water in it. There was, but he reminded himself that they’d need to fill the plastic water container tomorrow. Fraser must have spent the entire day drinking tea, he thought glumly. Duncan put the kettle on the camper van’s small gas ring and picked up the box of matches. He took one out and struck it, the sudden flare releasing brimstone smoke. Someone banged on the door.

  Duncan jumped. The sting on his fingertips reminded him he still held the match. He shook it out, released from his surprise. He almost called out to ask who it was. But a trespasser would hardly walk right up and knock, he chided himself. Even so, he picked up the Maglite again. Just in case.

  Then, drawing confidence from the torch’s weight, he went to open the door.

  CH APTER 15

  I WAS SITTING at the desk in the clinic. It was dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t see. A dusty twilight seemed to cover everything. The blinds on the window and door were drawn, and the skull and jawbone still sat on the steel trolley. On the desk in front of me was my laptop, its screen dark and dead. The halo
gen examination lamp was poised over the table where I’d left it, but now it was unlit.

  There wasn’t a sound. I looked round, taking in my surroundings. And, with the lack of surprise that sometimes accompanies such moments, I knew without thinking about it that I was asleep.

  I felt the presence in the corner of the room before I saw it. The figure was lost in shadow, but I could still see her. A woman, heavy-boned and fleshy. A round, attractive face marred by an underlying hardness.

  She looked at me, unspeaking.

  What do you want? The woman didn’t answer. I’ve done all I can. It’s down to the police now.

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  Still looking at me, she pointed to the skull on the table. I don’t understand. What do you want me to do? She opened her mouth. I waited for her to speak, but instead of words smoke began streaming from her lips. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. Smoke was pouring from her now, from her eyes, nose and mouth, pluming from her fingertips. I could smell her burning, yet there were no flames. Only smoke. It was filling the room, obscuring my view of her. I knew I had to do something, try to help her. You can’t. She’s already dead.

  The smoke was getting thicker, starting to choke me. I still couldn’t move, but the need to act was overwhelming. I could no longer see the woman, no longer see anything. Move. Now! I lurched towards her . . .

  And woke up. I was still in the clinic, sitting at the desk where I’d fallen asleep. Now, though, the room was in darkness. A faint glow came from my laptop, where an infinity of stars raced into oblivion. The screensaver had turned itself on, which meant I’d been sleeping for at least fifteen minutes.

  The gale thrashed outside as I tried to shake off the effects of the dream. I felt short of breath, and my vision was blurred, as though there were a gauze veil in front of it. And I could still smell the acrid stink of smoke.

  I took a deep breath, and immediately started to cough. Now I could taste smoke as well as smell it. I tried the switch for the halogen lamp. Nothing happened. The storm must have finally succeeded in cutting off Runa’s electricity. My laptop was running on battery. I hit a key, bringing it out of the powersave mode. Its screen lit up, casting a dim blue light into the clinic. The haze in the air was more obvious now, and as the last vestiges of sleep fell away I realized I hadn’t just been dreaming after all.

  The room was full of smoke.

  Coughing, I jumped up and lunged for the door. I grabbed hold of the handle, but immediately snatched my hand away. It was hot.

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  intruder’s visit that afternoon, but now I yanked it open. The hall beyond was swirling with a sulphurous orange light. The community centre was on fire.

  I backed away from the door and quickly looked round the clinic. The only other way out was the small window set high up in one wall. If I stood on a chair I should just be able to squeeze through. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. I saw the window locks and swore. I’d no idea where the key might be, and there was no time to look. I snatched the desk lamp to break the glass but stopped myself at the last second. Even opened, the window would be only just big enough for me to crawl through. If I broke it I’d never fit through the smaller gap. And although the clinic door was shut, the rush of oxygen-rich air from outside might still cause the fire to expand explosively. I daren’t risk that.

  The smoke had already grown thicker in the room, making it hard to breathe. Come on! Think! I snatched my coat off the wall hook and ran to the washbasin. Turning the tap on full I plunged my head underneath, then did the same with my scarf and gloves. Cold water streamed down my face as I struggled into my coat, cursing the sling’s clumsiness. Winding the wet scarf round my nose and mouth, I wriggled my right hand into my glove and then pulled up the coat ’s hood.

  Grabbing my laptop from the desk, I spared a glance at the skull and jawbone lying on the steel trolley. I’m sorry, Janice. And at that moment the glass porthole exploded. The fact that my face was averted meant my hood and scarf protected me from most of the flying shards. I felt a few sting my exposed skin, but the sensation was dwarfed by the sudden blast-furnace wave of heat. I staggered back as smoke and flame billowed into the clinic. Any chance of my climbing from the window had now gone. Even if the fireball caused by breaking it didn’t kill me outright, I’d be burned to death before I could wriggle through. The smoke was already filtering through the scarf, smothering me. Hacking and coughing, I hunched my back against the heat coming through the shattered porthole and grabbed hold of the door han-

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  dle. The water on my glove steamed, the heat striking right through the thick fabric, and then I’d yanked the door open and dashed through.

  It was like running into a wall of heat and noise. The piano was burning like a torch, discordant notes clamouring out a madman’s music as the fire plucked and snapped its wires. I almost retreated into the clinic again, but I knew if I did I would die in there. And now I saw that the community centre wasn’t completely ablaze. One half was engulfed in flames, yellow tongues chasing across the ceiling and floor, but the side where the exit was located hadn’t yet caught. Get out! Go! Eyes streaming, I stumbled through the smoke. Almost immediately I was lost and blind. I could smell my coat smouldering, a scorched-wool stink coming from the scarf over my face. Heart pounding from fear and lack of oxygen, I didn’t see the stack of chairs until I fell over them.

  Pain lanced through my shoulder and the laptop flew from my hands as I tumbled to the floor. But it was falling that saved me. Like suddenly swimming into a thermocline, there was a band of relatively clear air trapped against the floorboards. Stupid! Should have realized! I was panicking, not thinking clearly. Keeping my face pressed to the floor, I gulped in greedy breaths as I pawed around for the laptop. I couldn’t find it. Leave it! I began crawling towards the exit. An eddy in the smoke revealed the double doors right in front of me. Taking a last deep breath, I hauled myself to my feet and tugged at the handles.

  And heard the rattle of the padlocked chain.

  Shock and fear paralysed me. I’d forgotten all about the padlock. The key. Where’s the key? I couldn’t remember. Think! I’d given the spare to Brody, but where was mine? Tearing off my glove with my teeth, I frantically searched my pockets. Nothing. Oh, Christ, it’s still in the clinic.

  Then I felt the thin metal shape in my back pocket. Thank God! I fumbled it out, knowing if I dropped it I was dead. The fire clawed at my back. My chest heaved as I tried to fit the key into the padlock, but I daren’t take a breath. If I did I’d be inhaling smoke, not air, and the 154

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  heat would sear my lungs. My hand was clumsy, the lock stubbornly resistant.

  Then there was a snick and the hasp slid open. The chain rasped on the handles as I tore it free. I wrenched open the doors, hoping that the porch would act like an airlock, allowing me to get out before the fresh air fed the fire. It did, but only partly. There was an instant ’s touch of cold against my face, then I was enveloped in a rush of heat and smoke. I stumbled out with it, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the labouring of my chest to draw breath. I’d no idea how far I’d gone before I collapsed. But this time it was on to blessedly cold, wet grass. I sucked in one breath after another, tasting cool air that was tainted by smoke, but air all the same. There were hands on me now, dragging me away from the centre. My eyes were streaming too much to see, but I recognised Brody’s voice saying, ‘It ’s all right, we ’ve got you.’

  I looked up, coughing and wiping the tears from my eyes. He was supporting me on one side, the even bigger figure of Guthrie on the other. There were people all around, their stunned faces lit by the flames. More were still arriving, flapping overcoats hurriedly thrown on over pyjamas and nightgowns. Someone was shouting for water; a moment later a mug was thrust into my hands. I drank thir
stily, the coldness of it wonderfully soothing on my throat.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Brody was saying.

  I nodded, turning round to look back at the community centre. The whole building was blazing, sending up sheets of flame and sparks that the wind instantly whipped away. The clinic extension, where I’d been only minutes before, was also burning now, gouts of smoke streaming from the shattered window.

  ‘What happened?’ Brody asked.

  I tried to speak, but another coughing spasm seized me.

  ‘All right, take it easy,’ Brody said, urging me to drink again. Another figure was barging towards us through the gathering crowd. It was Cameron, staring with open-mouthed disbelief at the burning centre. His gaze was manic as he turned it on me.

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  ‘What have you done?’ he demanded, bass voice quivering with rage.

  ‘For God ’s sake, give him a chance, can’t you?’ Brody said. Cameron’s Adam’s apple jerked under the skin of his throat like a trapped mouse. ‘Give him a chance? That’s my clinic going up in flames!’

  I tried to control my coughing. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ I croaked.

  ‘You’re sorry? Look at it! It ’s gone, the whole place! What the hell did you do?’

  The veins in his temples pulsed in a calligraphy of anger. I forced myself to stand, wiping my streaming eyes.

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’ My throat felt full of gravel. ‘I woke up and the hall was on fire. It started in there, not the clinic.’

  Cameron wasn’t about to back down. ‘Oh, so it started by itself, did it?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ I broke off, coughing again.

  ‘Leave him alone, he only just made it out himself,’ Brody warned.

  A harsh laugh came from nearby. It was Kinross, standing at the front of the crowd. With his dark hair and oilskins he looked like a figure from a wilder, darker age.