Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

Or a grave.

Mathilde never said what her father had done with the remains of her stillborn daughter, but I can guess what she chose to believe. The police were unaware of any transgression except Gretchen’s death and Louis’s murder, so the small bed of flowers remains undisturbed. Yet try as I might, I can’t see Arnaud burying evidence of his other crime where it could so easily be found. Not when he had a much more permanent means of disposal, as he showed with Louis. I doubt he’d feel differently just because it was his own flesh and blood.

Especially not another daughter.

That’s only speculation, but there are other unanswered questions. I still can’t decide if what I heard in those last moments in the hut was really the sound of Mathilde lifting the knife from the stone slab. I don’t want to believe it, but then I think about everything else she did to protect her family. Once I’d found Louis’s truck in the lake, she’d nothing to lose by telling me the rest, hoping even then to persuade me to take Gretchen away. But after I’d refused would she really have allowed me to leave, knowing what I did?

In my more optimistic moods I tell myself she would. She’d saved my life once before, when I’d stepped in the trap. Except then I’d represented an opportunity rather than a threat. In my darker moments I wonder what would have happened if I’d got worse instead of better. Would she have seen I received proper medical attention as she’d said, with all the risk that implied? Or would I have ended up like Louis, another offering for her father’s sanglochons?

I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been so tainted by the farm’s secrets that I’m seeing them where they don’t exist. And my own actions don’t give me the moral right to judge. That night in the hut when I thought Mathilde had taken the knife from the slab, my first thought was of the hammer that Georges had used to stun the sow. If Michel hadn’t announced Gretchen’s presence just then, would I have actually picked it up?

Used it?

Not so long ago I would have said no, but that was before Jules. Even though I didn’t mean to kill him, I keep asking myself if that made any difference. If I’d known what would happen when I drove away, if it came down to a simple question of him or me, would I have acted any differently? There’s no easy answer. Under the skin we’re all still animals. That’s what the society Arnaud so despised is meant to disguise, but the reality is that none of us know what we’re truly capable of.

If we’re lucky we never find out.

On impulse I crouch down and begin plucking weeds from the flowerbed. I’m not sure why, but it feels right. When a semblance of the former neatness has been restored, I stand up and take a last look around. Then, wiping the muddy soil from my hands, I go back to the courtyard and give a sharp whistle.

‘Lulu! Here, girl!’

The spaniel lopes out from behind the stables where she’s been sniffing. She’s barely slowed by the single hind leg, and her enthusiasm makes me smile. I hadn’t planned on claiming her, but no one else wanted to and the vet couldn’t keep her indefinitely. It was either that or let her be destroyed, and I couldn’t do that. Besides, it’s surprising how much easier it is to hitch a lift when you’ve a three-legged dog as a travelling companion.

As we pass the house Lulu stops by the kitchen door and whines. But she doesn’t stay long, and soon follows me out of the courtyard and back up the track. She slips under the gate while I climb over. Once we’re on the other side I look up and down the road. There are no cars in sight. The spaniel watches me with her ears cocked, wobbling slightly as she waits for me to decide which way to go. It’s only when she’s standing still that balance becomes a problem.

So long as we keep moving she’s fine.

Even by my standards, Stone Bruises has been a long time coming. People who’ve helped along the way include SCF, Ben Steiner, my agents Mic Cheetham and Simon Kavanagh and all at The Marsh Agency, my editor at Transworld, Simon Taylor, and my parents, Sheila and Frank Beckett.

As ever, a huge thanks to my wife, Hilary, without whose belief, help and support this would never have been written.

Simon Beckett, September 2013

Simon Becketthas worked as a freelance journalist, writing for national newspapers and colour supplements. He is the author of four international bestselling crime thrillers featuring his forensic anthropologist hero, Dr David Hunter: The Chemistry of Death , Written in Bone , Whispers of the Dead and The Calling of the Grave .

Simon is married and lives in Sheffield. To find out more, visit www.simonbeckett.com.

The Chemistry of Death

Written in Bone

Whispers of the Dead

The Calling of the Grave

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First published in Great Britain

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Copyright © Hunter Publications Ltd 2014

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