Written in Bone

by Simon Beckett

  The entries were ordered by date. About a dozen of them had been made since Maggie had arrived on Runa. Brody had selected the most recent. According to the logged time and date, it had been made just before midnight. 266

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  Around the time that Rose Cassidy had told us that Maggie had gone out.

  ‘Here goes,’ Brody had said, and pressed the play button through the plastic bag.

  Maggie ’s dead voice had issued eerily from the speaker. Well, this is it. No sign of him yet, but I’m a few minutes early. Just hope he turns up after all this . . .

  ‘Hope who turns up? Come on, tell us the bastard’s name,’ Fraser muttered. But Maggie had other things on her mind. God, what am I doing here? I was actually excited about this earlier, but it all seems a bit pointless now. Why the hell did Kevin Kinross have to tell me the woman’s name? I’m a hack on a local newspaper, not an in- vestigative journalist! How did he know it anyway? And that stupid stunt with David Hunter. ‘Is the victim called Janice?’ Really slick, Mags. Now he thinks I’m withholding information. But I can’t just drop Kevin in it. So what do I do now?

  There was a sound it took me a moment to place—Maggie was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She gave a sigh. First things first. Right now I need to get my head cleared. Don’t want to make a hash of things now, not when I’ve pushed so hard for this. Christ, this car’s still like a bloody oven . . . There was a rustling noise: she was taking off her coat. Must admit, I’m starting to feel a bit spooked. Probably just all this other business, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m being stupid. I mean, there’s a killer loose on the island, for Christ’s sake! If I heard about anyone else doing this I’d . . . Hang on, what was that?

  There was a long pause. The only sound was Maggie ’s breathing, quick and nervous.

  I’m getting jumpy. Can’t see anything now. Looked like a flash, like a torch. Probably a shooting star, or something. It’s so dark out here I can’t tell what’s land and what’s sky. Still . . . There was an audible clunk.

  Right, very safety conscious. Drive out to the middle of nowhere and then lock your doors. I mean, I’m not really worried. Not really. The man just wants to talk in private, that’s all, and the way tongues wag on this

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  island you can hardly blame him. Even so, I’m starting to wonder if this is such a good idea. Better be worth it. I’ll give him five more minutes, and if he’s not here then— Shit!

  We could hear that her breathing had become fast and ragged. There’s that flash again. That’s no bloody shooting star, somebody’s out there! Right, that’s it, I’m going . . . There was a coughing whine as the car’s engine turned over but wouldn’t start. Over it we could hear Maggie ’s voice, further away now, as though she ’d just thrust the dictaphone aside in her haste to start the Mini.

  Come on, come on! Oh, don’t do this! I don’t believe this, come on, car, don’t be such a fucking cliché! Oh, you fucking heap of junk, come on! Calm down, you’re flooding it! I found myself urging her, even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

  Then she gave a laugh of pure relief.

  Oh, thank Christ! There’s headlights. He’s here. Bloody late, but I’ll forgive him that! There was another laugh, stronger this time, then a snuffle of eyes being wiped and nose being blown. God, some bloody reporter he’s going to think I am! Come on, Mags, get your act together. You’re supposed to be a professional. Shit, I can’t see a bloody thing for his headlights. How about turning them off, eh? Right, here he comes, let’s hide this thing out of the way . . . We heard more rustling as she moved the dictaphone somewhere out of sight. There was the clunk of the door locks being taken off, then the creak of a door opening. When Maggie spoke again, she sounded bright and cocky.

  Hi. What time do you call this, then? Thought you said midnight? Look, how about turning off the headlights? I can’t see a . . . Oh, sorry, I didn’t . . . Hey, what are you . . . Oh, Jesus! JESUS! I bowed my head as Maggie ’s screams and pleas began to shrill out of the speaker. The dictaphone had dutifully recorded everything. There were thumps and crackles as it was buffeted during the struggle, but they didn’t drown out the awful soundtrack of Maggie ’s murder.

  The confusion of cries and scrambling reached a climax, then 268

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  there was a sudden silence. It was broken only by a faint noise, like rushing water. We were listening to a recording of the wind, I realized. The dictaphone had been knocked from the car as Maggie made her short-lived escape. With nothing louder to activate it, the machine soon shut off. There was a brief lull, then Brody’s voice emerged.

  Wonder how long the batteries last on these things? I heard my own voice answer, Long enough. It’s still— Brody stopped it there.

  None of us looked at each other. It was as though, by listening to the recording of Maggie ’s killing, we ’d colluded in something shameful.

  ‘Why couldn’t she have just said the bastard ’s name?’ Fraser said. Even he sounded shaken.

  I stirred. ‘She ’d no reason to. The recording was for her own benefit. Whoever it was, she didn’t think she was in any danger from him. She was only nervous while she was waiting, not once he ’d arrived.’

  ‘Got it wrong, didn’t she?’ Fraser said. ‘All that business with the headlights. What’s the betting he left them on to dazzle her, so she wouldn’t see he ’d got a knife?’

  Brody had been listening without comment. ‘What about the flash she saw before the car arrived?’

  ‘Mary Tait,’ I said.

  He nodded, his face pulled into a mask of fatigue as he ran his hand over it. ‘Wandering around with that toy torch of hers. If it weren’t so bloody tragic it ’d be funny. Maggie gets spooked by a harmless teenager, and opens her car door to a killer.’

  ‘Aye, but who the hell was it?’ Fraser said in frustration. Brody turned his attention back to the dictaphone. ‘Let ’s see if there ’s anything else on here that might tell us.’ He gave a gallows smile. ‘Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’

  The wind rocked the car, flinging rain against it as though trying to force its way inside. Having played the last file first, Brody now

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  went back to the start to play them in order. Maggie ’s voice came from the speaker once again.

  Well, this is turning out to be a better trip than I expected. Just wish my gran had access to the Internet, but the information age has passed her by, bless her. Have to get someone at the newsroom to check out sponta- neous whatever-it’s-called. And do a search on David Hunter’s back- ground while they’re about it. I’ll bet there’s something interesting there. There was a chuckle. Aye, and in his background as well. What’s an ex- pert from London doing out here, and with Sergeant bloody Neil Fraser, of all people? Jesus, of all the bloody cops to run into. Still, good news for Ellen’s bar takings, I dare say . . . I glanced at Fraser. His expression was thunderous. Got a real bruise on my arm where he threw me out of the cottage. Serve him right if I really did file a complaint. Too shocked to do much when it happened, though. God, the state of that body! I’d love to get a better look. Perhaps I should think about taking another trip out there tonight. Fraser’s bound to be in the bar by then . . . The back of Fraser’s neck was burning crimson. Brody kept his face impassive as he played the next file.

  Maggie sounded bad-tempered and out of breath. Well, a right waste of time that was. And I still didn’t manage to get a proper look at the body. Last time I try to play at commandos. It was possible to hear a smile enter her voice. Still, gave me quite a rush, I have to admit. I’ve not been that scared since I wet myself playing hide-and-seek at junior school. God, when that young PC jumped out at me! What was his name? Duncan, I think they called him. Keen bugger, but at least he seemed hu- man. Cute, too, come to think of it. Wonder if he’s single? The next two entries were mainly concerned w
ith her personal musings on family and work. Brody skipped through them until a familiar name jumped out. Went out to the Strachans’ earlier, hoping to get an interview. Fat chance. David Hunter was there with his arm all strapped up. Learned the hard way about going out at night on Runa without a torch. She gave a snort. Bruce Cameron was there as well, sniffing around Strachan’s wife, 270

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  as usual. Creepy sod. Can’t see why the Strachans put up with him. Grace is nice enough, even though she’s so good-looking I should hate her. But can’t make up my mind about her husband. All charm one minute, frost the next. Mind you, I wouldn’t say no . . . The recording ended on her mischievous laugh.

  The next entry was another personal one, with Maggie worrying about her career prospects. Brody skipped through to the next. I felt a jolt of recognition when I realized what it was about. Bit of a turn-up for the books this afternoon. Took a shortcut to my gran’s down the alleyway behind the hotel, and who should come rushing out of the back door but Michael Strachan. Looked guilty as hell when I said hello. Don’t know who was more surprised, me or him. Never even oc- curred to me there might be anything between those two. I mean, Ellen’s attractive, but the man’s married to a goddess, for God’s sake! But there’s definitely something going on there. Perhaps I should sound out my gran, see if any tongues have been wagging . . .’ So that had been who Ellen’s anonymous visitor had been, when I’d discovered her crying in the kitchen. The date and time of the recording confirmed it. After everything else I wasn’t altogether surprised, but the knowledge gave me no satisfaction. I glanced uneasily at Brody. A furrow had appeared between his eyebrows, but he made no comment as he played the next entry.

  Well, you live and learn. Here’s me thinking I’m the seasoned re- porter, unearthing some big secret, and it turns out to be old news. Course, my gran’s sworn me to secrecy anyway, bless her. Sounds like practically everyone knows, but just keeps quiet about it. Can’t help but wonder if it would have stayed a secret if it had been anyone else. People here know which side their bread’s buttered on, I expect. She gave a cynical laugh. The thing is, it’s obvious once you look for it. The little girl’s got Ellen’s colouring, the same lovely red hair, but if you ignore that you can see that Strachan’s her father . . .

  Oh, hell, I thought. Fraser gave a low whistle. ‘So Strachan’s been playing away from home? Some people are never satisfied.’

  Brody looked startled, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he ’d just heard. But it made all too much sense to me. What was it

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  Ellen had said about Anna’s father the night she ’d treated my burns? Let’s just say there was never any future there. Now I knew why.

  The planes of Brody’s face had hardened. Ellen wasn’t his daughter, but she might as well have been. Tight-lipped, he stabbed at the machine with a blunt finger to play the next file. It was immediately obvious from Maggie ’s voice that something was wrong.

  God, what a lousy bloody day. Seemed like a good idea, trying to get an interview with Strachan and his wife after she’d been attacked. Awful business, but they’re the most glamorous couple in the Western Isles, and this is a big story now. Thought I was being clever, dropping the soup all over the floor and batting my eyes at Strachan. Then Dr David bloody Hunter comes out with that Campbell’s crack. God, I just wanted the ground to swallow me up.

  And as though that wasn’t bad enough, he tells me the young police- man’s been murdered. Duncan. What was his surname? That’s awful, I can’t remember. Some bloody journalist I am. He was really nice, helped me on the ferry with my bags. Even that night he caught me at the cottage. Doesn’t seem possible that someone on this island—Christ, someone I know !—must have killed him. I mean, what’s going on? I don’t even want to talk about it any more . . .

  The file ended abruptly. Our breathing had misted the car windows, so that it seemed as though we were enclosed in a sea of fog. The world outside might have ceased to exist as Brody selected the next entry.

  ‘Two left.’

  This time I thought there was something wrong with the recorder. The noise that came from its speaker was unintelligible at first, an indistinct babble of sound. It was only when I recognized Guthrie ’s booming voice ordering a drink that I realized we were listening to a recording made in the bar before the meeting. Snatches of conversation came and went, then Brody’s voice came from the speaker. It sounded tinny and far away as the dictaphone struggled to pick up his speech from across the room.

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  We listened once more to Kinross’s vehement refusal to believe the killer was an islander, Maggie ’s own question about the dead woman’s identity, and Cameron’s abortive attempt to assert himself. The recording became unintelligible again as the meeting broke up. When it finished the tension in the steamed-up interior of the car seemed unbearable. Then Brody spoke.

  ‘Last one.’

  This time Maggie ’s voice sounded much more upbeat. Finally, some good news! Almost missed it, too. I’d no idea the note was there, it was stuffed so far down in my coat pocket. It’d have been a real sickener if I’d not found it in time. Although why he wants to meet me at midnight, and out at Bodach Runa, I don’t know. Man’s got a sense of the dramatic, I’ll give him that. Anyone else but him, I might have second thoughts, but I dare say he just wants to wait till his wife’s asleep. Either way, no way can I pass this up. I’ve been trying hard enough for an inter- view, and if Michael Strachan wants to keep it private, I’m not going to argue.

  There was a sudden, exuberant laugh.

  Glad I didn’t break my granny’s third-best bowl for nothing after all. God, I just hope he isn’t setting me up. Be a real anticlimax if he doesn’t show . . .

  The recording finished. The only sound was the drumming of the rain on the car roof, and the mournful bluster of wind. Wordlessly, Brody played the last section again.

  . . . if Michael Strachan wants to keep it private, I’m not going to argue . . .

  Fraser was the first to find his voice. ‘Jesus Christ! She went to meet Strachan?’

  ‘You heard her.’ Brody spoke quietly. He sat very still, as though unwilling to move.

  ‘But . . . Christ, it doesn’t make any sense! Why would Strachan kill Maggie Cassidy? And the others? What about his wife! He can’t have attacked her himself?’

  ‘People do anything when they’re desperate,’ Brody said. He

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  slowly shook his head. ‘I didn’t see this coming either, but Strachan makes more sense than Kinross. We thought Janice Donaldson might have been killed because she tried to blackmail a client, and who’d make the best target? A widowed ferry captain, or a wealthy married man who’s the pillar of his community?’

  ‘Aye, but . . . why would Strachan bother with a low-rent tart like Donaldson when he ’s got a wife like that?’

  Brody gave a weary shrug. ‘For some men it’s the sordidness that provides the kicks. As for the rest . . . The more someone has to lose, the harder they’ll try to keep it.’

  I didn’t want to accept it, but it made an awful sort of sense. First Janice Donaldson, then Duncan had been killed as Strachan tried to cover his tracks. And even though Maggie ’s persistence in trying to interview him was innocent, to a killer who wasn’t prepared to take any chances it would have appeared in a very different light.

  ‘He planted the note yesterday,’ I said, slowly. ‘While I was out there. He left Grace and Maggie with me while he went to clean her coat.’

  Even the stalker that Grace thought she ’d seen had no doubt been engineered by Strachan, a means of distracting her so he could slip a hastily written note into Maggie ’s coat pocket. A note that was now probably lost on the moorland near the Mini, scattered with the rest of the contents of Maggie ’s bag. I felt shock begin to give way to anger; outrage at the extent of Strachan
’s crimes. His betrayal of everyone who’d trusted him.

  Including me.

  The Range Rover lurched as a gust of wind savaged it. The gale seemed to have grown worse while we ’d listened to Maggie ’s recordings.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Fraser asked.

  Moving with the deliberation of a crash victim, Brody slowly opened the glove compartment and put the dictaphone inside. He closed it again, pressing the door shut with a deliberate click.

  ‘Try the radio.’

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  Fraser tried first his own, then the car’s fixed set. ‘Still dead.’

  Brody nodded, as though that was only what he ’d expected. ‘We can’t afford to wait for the mainland team any more. We need to bring him in. Strachan’s going to be off this island the second the weather clears. There ’s not only his own yacht, there ’s a dozen or so other boats he could try for. We can’t watch them all.’

  ‘We don’t know for sure he ’ll run,’ Fraser countered, but he didn’t sound as if he believed it himself.

  ‘He ’s killed three people, including a police officer,’ Brody said implacably. ‘Maggie wasn’t even a threat, he just thought she was. He ’s losing it, getting desperate. We give him the chance, he ’ll be gone. Or kill somebody else. You think Wallace will thank you if that happens?’

  Fraser gave a reluctant nod. ‘Aye. Aye, you’re right.’

  Brody turned to me as the police sergeant started the car. Something seemed to have gone out of him after he ’d heard the recordings, but I wasn’t sure if it was the revelation about Strachan’s being the murderer, or the father of Ellen’s child.

  ‘What about you, David? I can’t ask you to come with us, but I’d appreciate it.’ A corner of his mouth twitched in an attempted smile.