Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

‘Shall we help ourselves, then? We’re dying of thirst.’

It was the woman at the bar who’d spoken. She was drunk, a condition I guessed from the look of her wasn’t unusual. A few years ago she might have been attractive, but now her features were puffy and etched with bitterness.

‘The last time you helped yourself, Karen, you forgot to chalk it up,’ Ellen retorted. There was steel in her voice. ‘I’m having a conversation. I’m sure you can survive for a few more minutes.’

She turned back to us, and so missed the anger that clouded the woman’s face. ‘Sorry about that. A few drinks and some people forget their manners. Now, I was asking you what you wanted to eat. There’s mutton stew, or I can make you a sandwich if you’d rather.’

‘Mutton stew sounds good. But I don’t mind if you serve them first.’

‘They can wait. It’ll do them good.’

‘Ellen…’ Brody said, quietly.

She sighed, then gave him a tired smile. ‘Aye, all right. I know.’

He watched her go to the bar to serve them. ‘Ellen can be a little…fiery,’ he said, but with affection. ‘Causes friction sometimes, but the hotel’s the only watering hole on Runa, so everyone either abides by her rules or stays home. She’s a good cook, too. Did a college course on the mainland. I eat here most nights.’

Even if Fraser hadn’t mentioned on the ferry that Brody was estranged from his wife and daughter, I would have guessed that he lived on his own. There was something intrinsically solitary about him.

‘Does she run this place by herself?’

‘Aye. Not easy, but between the bar takings and the occasional guest, she manages.’

‘What happened to her husband?’

His face closed down. ‘There wasn’t one. Anna’s father was someone she met on the mainland. She doesn’t talk about it.’

The way he said it made it clear that he wasn’t going to either. He cleared his throat and nodded towards the group at the bar.

‘Anyway, let me tell you about some of Runa’s local colour. Kinross you’ll have met on the boat. Surly bugger, but he’s had it rough. Wife died a couple of years ago, so now there’s just him and his teenage lad. The loudmouth with the beer belly is Sean Guthrie. Used to be a fisherman but lost his boat to the bank. He’s got an old one he’s trying to patch up, but he scrapes a living now doing odd jobs, and helping Kinross run the ferry sometimes. Harmless enough mostly, but keep clear of him when he’s had too many.’

He was interrupted by a raucous laugh from the woman.

‘That’s Karen Tait. Runs the general store, when she’s sober and can be bothered. Got a sixteen-year-old daughter, Mary, who…well, she isn’t what she should be. You’d think Karen would be at home with her, but she’d rather prop up the bar in here every night.’

His expression made it clear what he thought of that.

A blast of cold air swept into the bar as the outside door was opened. A moment later a golden retriever burst into the bar in a scrabble of claws.

‘Oscar! Oscar!’

A man came in after it. I’d have put him a year or two either side of forty, with the chiselled good looks of a latter-day Byron. His weatherproof coat was black and obviously expensive. Like its wearer, it looked out of place amongst the scuffed coats and oilskins favoured by the other islanders.

His entrance had silenced everyone in the room. Even the domino players had halted their game. The man casually snapped his fingers at the dog. It trotted back to him, wagging its tail.

‘Sorry about that, Ellen,’ he said with an easy confidence, the clipped vowels of South Africa evident in his voice. ‘He shot straight in as soon as I opened the door.’

Ellen looked unimpressed with both the newcomer and his apology. ‘You should keep hold of him, then. This is a hotel, not a kennel.’

‘I know. It won’t happen again.’

He looked contrite, but as she turned away and walked out I saw him flash a quick smile and wink at the drinkers at the bar. There were grins in reply. Whoever the newcomer was, he was popular.

‘Evening, everyone. It’s a raw one out there tonight,’ he said, shrugging out of his coat.

There was a chorus of ‘Feasgar Math’ and ‘aye’s. I had the impression he could have said it was a beautiful evening and they would just as readily have agreed with him. But the newcomer either didn’t notice their deference, or accepted it as his due.

‘Will you take a drink, Mr Strachan?’ Kinross asked, with an awkward formality.

‘No, thank you, Iain. But I’ll gladly buy a round myself. Help yourselves, and mark it up on my tab.’ He gave the woman at the bar a smile that made his eyes crinkle. ‘Hello, Karen. I’ve not seen you for a while. Are you and Mary keeping well?’

She was more susceptible to his charm than Ellen had been. Her blush was visible even from where I sat.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, pleased to be singled out.

Only now did the newcomer turn towards where Brody and I were sitting. ‘Evening, Andrew.’

Brody gave a stiff nod in return. His expression was hard as granite. He shifted his legs to put them between his border collie bitch and the golden retriever, which was sniffing around her.

The newcomer swatted the retriever with his gloves. ‘Leave her alone, Oscar, you hound.’

The dog came away, wagging its tail. Its owner gave me a grin. For all his self-assurance, there was something engaging about him.

‘And you must be one of the visitors I’ve been hearing about. I’m Michael Strachan.’

I’d already guessed this must be who Fraser had told me about on the way back from the cottage: Runa’s unofficial laird, and the owner of the big house. He was younger than I’d expected, somehow.

‘David Hunter,’ I said, shaking the offered hand. He had a dry, strong grip.

‘Can I buy you both a drink as well?’ he offered.

‘Not for me, thanks,’ I said.

Brody rose to his feet, his expression stony. He towered nearly a half-head over Strachan.

‘I was just leaving. Nice seeing you again, Dr Hunter. Come on, Bess.’

The dog obediently trotted out after him. Strachan watched him go, mouth curved in a faint smile, before turning back to me. ‘Mind if I join you?’

He was already sliding into Brody’s seat, casually tossing his gloves on to the table. In his black jeans and charcoal-grey sweater, sleeves pushed back to reveal tanned forearms and a Swiss Army watch, he looked as though he’d be more at home in Soho than the Outer Hebrides.

The golden retriever flopped down beside him, as near to the crackling fire as it could get. Strachan reached down and scratched its ears, looking every bit as relaxed himself.

‘Are you a friend of Andrew Brody’s?’ he asked.

‘We only met today.’

He grinned. ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t approve of me, as you probably noticed. I’m sure he was a good policeman, but God, the man’s dour!’

I didn’t say anything. I’d been quite impressed by Brody so far. Strachan slouched easily in his chair, casually resting one foot on his knee.

‘I gather you’re a…what is it? A forensic anthropologist?’ He smiled at my surprise. ‘You’ll find it’s hard to keep anything a secret on Runa. Especially when we’ve got a reporter whose grandmother lives on the island.’

I thought back to how Maggie Cassidy had come over to talk to me on the ferry. Stumbling against me, pretending to be a novelist as she’d pumped me for information.

And I’d fallen for it.

‘Don’t feel too bad,’ Strachan said, interpreting my expression. ‘It isn’t often we get this sort of excitement. Not that we want it, obviously. The last time a body was found here was when an old crofter tried to walk home in the dark after a few malts too many. Got lost and died of exposure. But this doesn’t sound anything like that.’