‘Just don’t take any chances,’ Brody warned. ‘Anybody shows up, anyone at all, be bloody careful.’
He didn’t have to tell me. But I didn’t think I’d be in any danger. There was no reason for the killer to come back here now, not any more.
Besides, there were things I needed to do.
I watched the Range Rover bump down the track to the road. The rain beat a lunatic’s Morse code on my coat as I turned back to
WRITTEN IN BONE
177
where the burned-out camper van waited. By now the downpour had tamped down the ashes, so that the wind only plucked off the occasional piece of fly-blown char. Set against the rock-strewn slopes of Beinn Tuiridh, the grey-black hulk seemed almost a part of the barren landscape. A ring of burned grass surrounded it, where the vegetation had been caught by the fire. Shivering in the freezing wind, I stayed on its edge, trying to visualise the camper van as it had been, forming a picture of how the transformation to its current state had come about. Then I turned my attention to Duncan’s body.
It wasn’t easy. The remains I deal with are usually those of strangers. I know them only through their death, not their life. This was different, and it was hard to reconcile my memory of the young constable with what was in front of me.
What was left of Duncan McKinney lay amongst the burned shell of the camper van. The fire had transformed him into a thing of charred flesh and bone, a blackened marionette that no longer looked human. I thought about the last time I’d seen him, how he ’d seemed troubled as he ’d driven me into the village from the clinic. I wished now I’d tried harder to make him say what was on his mind. But I hadn’t. I’d let him drive off, to spend the last few hours of his life alone out here.
I pushed the regret away. Thinking like that wouldn’t help me, or him. Rain dripped from my hood as I stared down at the corpse, letting my mind clear of thoughts of who it had been. Gradually, I began to see it without the filter of emotions. You want to catch whoever did this? Forget Duncan. Put aside the person. Look at the puzzle.
The body was lying face down. The clothes had been burned from it, as had most of the skin and soft tissue, exposing scorched internal organs that had been protected by the torso’s cocoon. Its arms were bent at the elbows, pulled up as their tendons had contracted. The legs were similarly contorted, throwing the hips and lower body slightly out to one side as they had drawn up in the heat. Part of what remained of the tabletop was visible underneath the body. The feet 178
Simon Beckett
were nearest the door, the head turned slightly to the right and pointing towards where the small couch had been. There was nothing left of the couch but a buckled frame and a few blackened springs. Something else was lying amongst them. Leaning forward I recognized the steel cylinder of Duncan’s Maglite, blistered and dulled by the fire.
My camera had been destroyed in the clinic along with the rest of my equipment, so I made do with sketching the body’s position on a notepad I’d borrowed from the Range Rover. It wasn’t perfect, as the sling made drawing difficult, and I had to shield the pad from the rain. But I did the best I could.
That finished, I began to study the body in more detail. Careful not to disturb anything, I leaned as close as I could, until I saw what I’d been looking for.
A gaping hole in the skull, the size of a man’s fist. The sound of a car coming down the track disturbed my thoughts. I looked round, surprised that Brody and Fraser were back so soon. But it wasn’t the police Range Rover that was approaching, it was Strachan’s gunmetal-grey Saab.
Brody’s warning sprang uncomfortably to mind. Anybody shows up, anyone at all, be bloody careful. I climbed to my feet, slipping my notepad away, and went to meet him as the car pulled up. He climbed out, staring past me at the camper van, too shocked to raise the hood of his coat.
‘Christ! This burnt down as well?’
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
But Strachan wasn’t listening. His eyes widened as he saw what was lying in the wreckage. ‘Oh, my God!’
He stared, blood draining from his face. Abruptly, he twisted away, doubling up as he vomited. He straightened slowly, fumbling in his pocket for something to wipe his mouth.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
He nodded, white-faced. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Who . . . who is it? The young policeman?’
WRITTEN IN BONE
179
‘Brody and Fraser are going to be back any time,’ I said, by way of answer. ‘You shouldn’t let them find you here.’
‘To hell with them! This is my home! I’ve spent the past five years getting this place back on its feet, and now . . .’ He broke off, running his hand through his rain-flattened hair. ‘This can’t be happening. I thought the community centre might be an accident, but this . . .’
I didn’t say anything. Strachan was recovering from the shock now. He lifted his face to the clouded sky, oblivious to the wind and rain.
‘The police won’t be able to get out here in this weather. And you’re not going to be able to keep this quiet. There are going to be a lot of frightened and angry people wanting answers. You’ve got to let me help. They’ll listen to me more than your police sergeant. Or Andrew Brody, come to that.’
There was a look of determination on the chiselled features as he stared across at me.
‘I’m not going to let someone destroy everything we ’ve done here.’
It was tempting. I knew from bitter experience how ugly the mood could turn in a small community like this. I’d felt the brunt of it myself once, and that had been in a community I’d been part of. Out here, cut off from all contact with the outside world, I didn’t want to think what might happen.
The question was, how far we could afford to trust anyone? Even Strachan?
Still, there was one way he could help. ‘Could we use the radio on your yacht?’
He looked surprised. ‘My yacht? Yes, of course. It’s got satellite communication as well if you need it. Why, aren’t the police radios working?’
I didn’t want to tell him we didn’t have any means of contacting the mainland at all, but I had to give some reason for asking. ‘We lost one of them in the fire. It ’s just useful to know there ’s an alternative if Fraser’s not around.’
180
Simon Beckett
Strachan seemed to accept my explanation. Subdued again, he stared at the camper van.
‘What was his name?’
‘Duncan McKinney.’
‘Poor devil,’ he said, softly. He looked at me. ‘Remember what I said. Anything you need, anything at all.’
He returned to his car and set off back down the track. As the Saab neared the road, I saw the distinctive shape of the police Range Rover heading towards it. The road’s narrowness forced the two cars to slow as they skirted each other, like two dogs warily circling before a fight. Then they were clear, and the Saab accelerated away with a smooth growl.
Keeping my back to the wind, I waited for the Range Rover to pull up. Brody and Fraser climbed out. While Fraser went to open the back, Brody came over, staring at the rapidly disappearing fleck of Strachan’s car.
‘What was he doing here?’
‘He came to offer his help.’
His chin jutted. ‘We can manage without that.’
‘That depends.’
I told him my idea of using the yacht ’s radio. Brody sighed.
‘I should have thought of that myself. But we don’t need Strachan’s yacht. Any of the boats in the harbour will have ship-toshore. We can use the ferry’s.’
‘The yacht’s nearer,’ I pointed out.
Brody’s jaw worked at the prospect of asking Strachan for a favour. But much as he might dislike the idea, he knew it made sense. He gave a terse nod. ‘Aye. You’re right.’
Fraser came over, clutching an armful of rusted steel reinforcing rods, the sort used for concrete foundations.
‘There was a pile of th
ose left over from when they built the school,’ Brody explained. ‘Should do the trick.’
Fraser let the rods fall on to the grass, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘This still doesn’t sit right with me. Just leaving him out here . . .’
WRITTEN IN BONE
181
‘If you can think of any alternative, then tell us,’ Brody said, but not unkindly.
The sergeant nodded, miserably. He went back to the Range Rover and came back with a heavy lump hammer and a roll of tape. He strode ahead of us to the remains of the camper van, his posture rigid and determined. But at the sight of Duncan’s body, lying exposed to the elements like a sacrifice, he faltered.
‘Oh, Jesus . . .’
‘If it ’s any consolation, he wouldn’t have felt any of this,’ I told him.
He glared at me. ‘Aye? And how would you know?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Because he was already dead when the fire started.’
The angry light died from the sergeant ’s eyes. Brody had come to stand with us.
‘You sure?’ he asked.
I glanced at Fraser. This wasn’t easy for any of us, but it would be hardest for him to hear.
‘Go on,’ he said, roughly.
I led them through the wet grass until we had a better view of the skull. Scraps of black flesh still clung to the bone, varnished by the rain. The cheeks and lips had burned away, exposing the teeth in a mockery of the policeman’s engaging grin.
I felt myself falter. The puzzle, not the person. I pointed to the gaping hole in Duncan’s skull.
‘See there, on the left-hand side?’
Fraser glanced, then looked away. The head was turned slightly, so it was lying partly on one cheek. Its position made it difficult to see the full extent of the damage, but it was unmissable, all the same. The jagged hole overlapped both the parietal and temporal bones on the left side of the skull like the entrance to a dark cave. Brody cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘Couldn’t that have happened in the fire, like you thought Janice Donaldson’s had?’
‘There ’s no way an injury like that was caused by the heat. 182
Simon Beckett
Duncan was hit a hell of a lot harder than Janice Donaldson. You can see even from here that pieces of bone have been pushed into the skull cavity. That means the wound was made by an external impact, not cranial pressure. And from the position of the arms, it looks like he just went straight down, without making any attempt to stop himself. He literally didn’t know what hit him.’
There was a silence. ‘And what did hit him? A hammer or something?’ Brody asked.
‘No, not a hammer. That would have punched a round hole through the bone, and this is more irregular. From what I can see so far it looks like some sort of club.’
Like a Maglite, I thought. The steel case of Duncan’s torch was poking through the ashes near his body. It was the right size and shape, and was heavy enough to have caused the damage. But there was no point speculating until SOC arrived.
Fraser had his fists balled, his eyes drawn to the body despite himself. ‘He was a fit lad. He wouldn’t have given in without a fight.’
I spoke carefully. ‘Perhaps not, but . . . well, from how it looks he had his back turned when he was struck. The body’s lying face down, feet towards the door. So he was facing away from it, and pitched forward when he was hit from behind.’
‘Couldn’t he have been killed outside, and then brought into the van?’ Brody asked.
‘I don’t think so. For one thing, the table ’s underneath him, which suggests he fell on to it. I can’t see anyone lifting his body on to it. And Duncan was hit here, on the side of his head,’ I said, tapping my own just above my ear. ‘For it to connect there the killer must have swung sideways rather than overhead like you’d normally expect.’
Fraser still didn’t get it. ‘Why does being hit on the side of his head mean he was killed inside the van?’
‘Because the ceiling wasn’t high enough for an overhead swing,’
Brody answered for me.
‘It ’s only guesswork at this stage, but it fits,’ I said. ‘The killer was standing behind Duncan, between him and the door. That points
WRITTEN IN BONE
183
to him being left-handed, because the impact wound is to the lefthand side of the skull.’
The rain squalled around us as they stared down at Duncan’s body, playing it out for themselves. I waited, wondering which one of them would say it first. Surprisingly, it was Fraser.
‘So he let them in? And then turned his back?’
‘That’s how it looks.’
‘What the hell was he thinking? Christ, I told him to be careful!’
I somehow doubted that. But if the police sergeant needed to re vise his memory to ease any guilt he might be feeling, I wasn’t going to stop him. There was a more important point here, one I could see from Brody’s expression that he hadn’t missed, even if Fraser had. Duncan hadn’t thought he was in any danger when he let his killer in.
Brody reached out and took the tape from Fraser.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
CH APTER 18
THE POLICE TAPE snapped and twisted, strung out between the steel rods that Fraser had hammered into the ground. With only one hand, there was little I could do to help. Brody had held the rods in place while Fraser knocked them in with the lump hammer, positioning them every few yards to form a square perimeter round the van.
‘You want to take a turn?’ the sergeant panted, halfway through.
‘Sorry, you’ll have to do it. Arthritis,’ Brody told him, rubbing his back.
‘Aye, right,’ Fraser muttered, pounding the steel rod into the turf as though venting his anger and grief. Which was perhaps what Brody had intended, I thought. I stood nearby, hunched against the cold and damp as they ran the tape between the rods. It was only a symbolic barrier, but I still wished there was more I could do as they fought against the wind to secure the whipping ends of the tape. Finally, it was done. The three of us stood, taking one last
WRITTEN IN BONE
185
look at the camper van behind its flimsy barricade. Then, without a word, we headed back for the Range Rover.
Our priority now was to let the mainland know what had happened. While Wallace still wouldn’t be able to send any support until the storm eased, the murder of a police officer would escalate this to a whole new level. And until help arrived, it was more important than ever for us to maintain contact with the outside world. Particularly for Fraser, I thought, watching him trudge ahead of us on the track, his broad shoulders slumped. He looked the picture of abject defeat. Beside me, Brody suddenly stopped walking. ‘Have you got any bags left?’
He was looking down at a tuft of wiry grass, rippling and bent in the wind. Something dark was snagged against it. I reached in my pocket for one of the freezer bags I’d brought from the hotel and passed it to him as Fraser came back.
‘What is it?’ he wanted to know.
Brody didn’t answer. Putting his hand into the bag as though it were a glove, he bent down and picked up the object that had been snared by the grass. Then, reversing the bag so it was inside, he held it up to show us.
It was a large, black plastic screw cap. A thin strap that would once have fastened it to a container stuck out from it, snapped clean after an inch or so.
Brody put his nose to the open top of the bag. ‘Petrol.’
He handed it to Fraser, who took a sniff himself. ‘You think the bastard dropped this last night?’
‘I’d say it’s a fair bet. Wasn’t here yesterday, or we ’d have seen it.’
Fraser’s expression was furious as he tucked it into his coat pocket. ‘So somewhere on this godforsaken island there ’s a petrol container with a broken strap but no lid.’
‘If it hasn’t been chucked off a cliff by now,’ Brody said. The drive to Strachan’s house passed in subdued silence. When we turn
ed up the long driveway leading to the house we saw that Grace ’s Porsche Cayenne had gone, but Strachan’s Saab was parked outside.
186
Simon Beckett
I couldn’t see Strachan’s house being without its own generator, but despite the day’s gloom there were no lights in any of the windows. Rain dripped from Fraser’s fist as he banged the cast-iron door knocker. We could hear Strachan’s dog barking inside, but there was no other sign of life. Fraser gave the heavy door a thump, hard enough to rattle it on its hinges.
‘Come on, where the fuck are you?’ he snarled.
‘Probably off on one of his walkabouts,’ Brody said, standing back to look up at the house. ‘I suppose we could always just go down to the yacht ourselves. It ’s an emergency.’
‘Aye, and what if it’s locked?’ Fraser asked. ‘We can’t just break in.’
‘People here don’t usually lock their doors. There ’s no cause.’
There might be now, I thought. But I was against it for another reason.
‘If we get down there and find it’s locked we ’ve wasted even more time,’ I said. ‘And does anyone know how to use a satellite radio anyway? Or a ship-to-shore, come to that?’
The silence that greeted the question told me neither of them did. Fraser slammed his hand against the door. ‘Shit!’
‘Let’s go and find Kinross. We ’ll use the ferry’s,’ Brody said. Kinross lived by the harbour. When we reached the outskirts of the village, Brody told Fraser to take a shortcut down a narrow cobbled street that bypassed the main road. The ferry captain’s bungalow had a prefabricated look to it, and like most of the other houses on Runa it had new uPVC doors and windows.
But the rest of the building had a run-down, uncared-for look. The gate was missing from the bottom of the path, and the small garden was overgrown and strewn with rusting boat parts. A fibreglass dinghy lay overgrown with dune grass, its bottom holed and splintered. Brody had told me Kinross was a widower who lived alone with his son. It showed.
Brody and I left Fraser brooding in the car while we went up the path. The door bell chimed with a cheery electronic melody. No one answered. Brody rang it again, then hammered on the door for good measure.