Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

It was only recently that the first fault lines had begun to appear in our relationship.

I knew I was largely to blame. When Jenny and I had met I’d been a GP. Technically, I still was, but the work I did now was very different. Not only did it often take me away from home, it was a painful reminder of a time-and an experience-she would rather forget.

It was a conflict I had no idea how to resolve. My work was as much a part of me as breathing, but I couldn’t imagine losing Jenny. Yet I was beginning to think that before much longer I’d have to choose between them.

The phone rang for a while before she answered. ‘Hi, it’s me,’ I said.

‘Hi.’ There was a strained pause. ‘So. How are the Outer Hebrides?’

‘Cold and wet. How was your day?’

‘Fine.’

Jenny was a teacher. Positions were hard to come by in London, but she’d found a part-time post at a nursery school which she enjoyed. She was good at her job, and good with children. I knew she wanted her own some day. That was something else I wasn’t sure about.

I couldn’t bear the stilted awkwardness between us. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about earlier.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No, it does. I just wanted to explain-’

‘Don’t. Please,’ she added, less forcefully. ‘There’s no point. You’re there now. I was just disappointed you wouldn’t be coming back today.’

‘It’ll only be another day or two,’ I said, aware it was a feeble olive branch.

‘OK.’

The silence stretched on. ‘I’d better go,’ I said after a while. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow night.’

I heard her sigh. ‘David…’

My stomach knotted. ‘What?’

There was a pause.

‘Nothing. I’m just looking forward to seeing you, that’s all.’

I told her the same and reluctantly broke the connection. After I’d hung up I stayed on the bed, wondering what it was she’d been about to say. Whatever it was, I was far from sure I wanted to hear it.

Sighing, I connected my camera to the laptop and downloaded the photographs from the cottage. There were over a hundred shots of the remains, capturing them from every angle. I quickly browsed through them, making sure there was nothing I’d overlooked. Bleached by the flash, the sight of the surviving hand and feet had lost none of its ability to shock. I spent longer studying the images of the broken skull. It looked like countless others I’d seen in the aftermath of fire. An almost textbook-perfect case of a cranial blow-out.

So why did I feel I was missing something?

I stared at the screen so long my eyes began to hurt, without finding anything that rang any alarm bells. Finally, I accepted I wasn’t going to. Wallace is probably right. You’re just being over-cautious.

I backed up the files on to a USB memory stick, then connected the laptop to the hotel’s Internet server so I could check my emails. The missing persons files I’d asked Wallace to send hadn’t arrived, so I replied to the messages that were most urgent, then lay on the bed and closed my eyes. I could easily have fallen asleep if my stomach hadn’t rumbled noisily to remind me that, tired or not, I needed to eat.

I pushed myself off the bed and headed for the door. As I passed the window, I idly glanced out. My own reflection stared back at me from the dark, rain-flecked glass, but for a second I thought I’d glimpsed something-someone-outside.

I went over and looked out. A lonely street lamp stood in the street below, a bright yellow smudge in the darkness. But except for that the night was empty.

Trick of the light, I told myself. Switching off the bedroom light, I went downstairs.

THE BAR WAS little more than a snug into which a few tables had been squeezed. Like the hallway, it was clad in pine panels, so that the overall impression was of being inside a giant wooden box. Set against one wall was a fireplace made entirely of seashells. A peat block burned in its hearth, filling the air with a rich, spicy scent.

There were fewer than a dozen customers, but it was enough to make the place feel busy without being overcrowded. The voices were a curious blend of lilting Scots and the harsher consonants of Gaelic. I received a few curious looks as I went in. Word had obviously spread about what had been found at the old crofter’s cottage, no doubt thanks to Maggie Cassidy. But after the initial glances everyone went back to what they were doing. Two old men were playing dominoes by the window, the clack of the black rectangles a staccato counterpoint to the chink of glasses. Kinross, the bearded ferry captain, was talking at the bar to a huge man with a ponderous gut. A blowsy woman in her forties was with them, her raucous laugh and smoker’s voice carrying above the barroom hubbub.

All the tables were occupied. There was no sign of Fraser, so I guessed he had gone to take Duncan’s supper out to the camper van. I hesitated, feeling the usual stranger’s exclusion at walking into a closed gathering.

‘Dr Hunter.’ Brody was sitting at a table by the fire, hand raised to attract my attention. The old border collie was curled asleep on the floor at his feet. ‘Won’t you join me?’

‘Thanks.’ I was glad to see a familiar face. I went over, easing my way past the domino players.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ He had a mug of tea on the table in front of him. I still hadn’t eaten, but a drink would be welcome.

‘A whisky, thanks.’

He went to the bar as I took the chair opposite him. Kinross gave him a nod as he made room. Cautiously respectful rather than friendly. There was no one serving, so Brody simply poured a measure of whisky into a glass, then chalked it up on a slate hanging by the bar.

‘Here you go. Fifteen-year-old Islay malt,’ he said, setting the glass in front of me with a small jug of water.

I looked at his tea. ‘You don’t drink yourself?’

‘Not any more.’ He raised his mug. ‘Slainte.’

I added a little water to the malt. ‘Cheers.’

‘So did you get much done after I’d left?’ he asked, then smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t ask. Old habits and all that.’

‘Not much to tell yet, anyway.’

He nodded and changed the subject. ‘How are they settling into the camper?’

‘All right, I think. At least, Duncan is.’

Brody smiled. ‘Drew the short straw, did he? Ah well, he’ll stay in worse places before he’s finished. That van stood me in good stead when I first retired. Not seen much use since I came out here, though.’

‘Duncan was saying you used to work with his father.’

His smile grew reflective. ‘Aye. Small world, eh? We served in the Territorial Army together when we were both green PCs. Last time I saw Sandy his lad was still at school.’ He shook his head. ‘Where’s the time go, eh? One minute you’re chasing crooks and thinking about promotion, the next…’

He broke off, brightening as Ellen came over. ‘Can I get you something to eat, Dr Hunter?’ she asked.

‘That sounds good. And it’s David.’

‘David,’ she corrected herself, smiling. ‘I hope Andrew here’s not bothering you. You know what these ex-policemen are like.’

Brody wagged a finger, mock-stern. ‘Careful, that’s slander.’

‘Would a slice of home-made apple pie make amends?’

He patted his stomach, regretfully. ‘Tempting, but I’d better not.’

‘The sky won’t fall if you treat yourself for once.’

‘You can never be too careful.’

Ellen laughed. ‘Aye, I’ll remember that next time you sneak sweets to Anna.’

The big man who was with Kinross suddenly raised his voice. ‘Another couple of drams here, Ellen.’

‘In a minute, Sean.’