Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

I didn’t like it, but there was nothing more I could do. After Wallace had ended the call, I dialled Jenny’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail. I left a message telling her I was sorry for not calling, that I was all right, and I’d call her again later. It seemed inadequate and unsatisfying. I’d have given anything to be able to see her just then. But that wasn’t going to happen either.

It was only as I put down the phone that I realized I’d automatically called Wallace first instead of Jenny. Wondering uncomfortably what that said about my priorities, I threw back the duvet and went to get ready.

The shower felt wonderful, hot water easing the ache in my shoulder and sluicing away the dirt and stink from the previous night. The sling was semi-rigid, made from Velcro, foam and plastic, so I was at least able to take it off. But dressing with only one hand was harder than I thought. I could barely move my left arm at all, and by the time I’d managed to pull on my thick sweater I felt as though I’d had a hard work-out at the gym.

I went out into the hallway. The big house had been given a thorough makeover. The white walls were newly plastered, the floor laid with coir matting instead of carpet.

At the top of the stairs, a large picture window looked down on to a small, sandy cove. It was flanked by cliffs, and steps ran down to where a sleek yacht was moored at the end of a wooden jetty. Even in the shelter of the cove, its mast rocked violently in the heavy chop. In the failing light I made out two figures standing on the jetty. One of them was pointing out into the cove, the black coat identifying him as Strachan. I guessed the other must be Bruce, the nurse turned schoolteacher.

Downstairs, a huge Turkish rug covered most of the entrance hall floor. On the back wall was a large abstract oil painting, a swirl of purples and blues shot through with indigo slashes that was both striking and subtly unsettling. I’d almost gone past before I noticed that the name at the bottom corner was Grace Strachan’s.

The strains of Spanish guitar music were coming from a room at the far end. I went in and found myself in a bright and airy kitchen, redolent with spices. Copper pans hung from the ceiling, while others bubbled on a black Aga.

Grace was next to it, deftly chopping vegetables. She gave me a smile over her shoulder.

‘I see you managed to dress OK.’

‘Eventually.’

She brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes with her wrist. Even in a plain black apron she looked almost ridiculously sensual. The effect was all the more powerful because it seemed so unconscious.

‘Michael won’t be a minute. He’s just taken Bruce down to the cove to show him his latest project. Bruce who mended your arm last night?’ she said, making it a question.

‘Yes, your husband told me. He did a good job.’

‘He’s a gem. Offered to come up to check on you as soon as school finished. Can I get you a drink, or something to eat? You must be famished.’

It wasn’t until then that I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since the previous day.

Grace seized on my hesitation. ‘How about a sandwich? Or an omelette?’

‘Really, I don’t-’

‘An omelette it is, then.’

She poured olive oil into a frying pan and deftly broke three eggs into a bowl as it heated.

‘Michael says you’re from London,’ she said, briskly beating them.

‘That’s right.’

‘I haven’t been there in ages. I keep trying to get Michael to go, but he’s a terrible stick-in-the-mud. Hates being prised off the island. Won’t go any further than Lewis, which isn’t exactly a cultural Mecca, let me tell you.’

Stick-in-the-mud wasn’t a phrase I’d have associated with her husband. But then, as I’d found out, he was a man of surprises.

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.

‘Oh, four years, now? No, five. God!’ She shook her head, amazed at the swiftness of time.

‘Must have taken some getting used to. Living on an island, I mean.’

‘Not really. We’ve always tended to go for fairly out of the way places. You’d think we’d be bored, but we never are. Michael’s always busy, and I help out in the school-art classes, mainly.’

‘I saw the painting outside. Very striking.’

She gave a dismissive shrug, but looked pleased. ‘Oh, it’s just a hobby. But that’s how we know Bruce so well, through me helping at the school. He was a primary school teacher on the mainland, so he was a real find. And I love children, so it’s great being able to work with them.’

A wistfulness briefly touched her face, and then was gone. I looked away, feeling uncomfortably as though I’d had a glimpse of something private. I’d already surmised that she and Strachan didn’t have children of their own. Now I knew how she felt about it.

‘I saw the yacht in the cove,’ I said, hoping to steer back to safer territory. ‘Nice boat.’

‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ Grace beamed, setting a fresh loaf and butter on the table. ‘Michael bought her when we first came out here. Only a forty-two footer, but the cove isn’t deep enough for anything bigger. And that size, one person can handle her on their own. Michael sometimes takes her to Stornoway, when he has to go over on business.’

‘So how did the two of you meet?’ I asked.

‘Oh, God, we’ve known each other practically for ever.’

‘You mean, as in childhood sweethearts?’

She laughed. ‘I know, it’s a terrible cliche, but it’s true. We grew up near Johannesburg. Michael’s older than me, and when I was little I used to follow him around. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy it out here. I like to be able to keep him to myself.’

Her happiness was infectious. I found myself envying Strachan his marriage. It made me uncomfortably aware of how much Jenny and I had been drifting apart lately.

‘Here you go,’ she said, sliding the omelette on to a plate. ‘Help yourself to bread and butter.’

I sat down and started to eat. The omelette was delicious, and I’d just finished the last mouthful when the kitchen door opened, letting in a blast of wind and rain. The golden retriever shot in, dripping water, and bounded excitedly over to me. I tried to fend it off one-handed.

‘No, Oscar!’ Grace ordered. ‘Michael, I’m sure David doesn’t want muddy paw prints all over him. Oh, and look, you’re as bad, you’re tracking mud everywhere!’

Strachan had followed the dog inside. With him was the man in the army-surplus peaked cap I’d seen ushering the pupils into the school the day before.

‘Sorry, darling, but I still can’t find my bloody wellingtons. Oscar, behave yourself. You’ve blotted your copybook with Dr Hunter enough as it is.’ Strachan pulled the dog from me and gave me a grin. ‘Glad to see you’re up and about, David. This is Bruce Cameron.’

The other man had taken off his hat, revealing a shaved head of ginger stubble, thinning in the classic shape of male pattern baldness. He was short and slight, with the scrawniness of a marathon runner and an Adam’s apple so prominent it looked about to break through the skin.

He had been watching Grace since they’d come in. Now he looked at me with the palest eyes I’d ever seen. They were an indefinable non-colour, with the whites visible all the way round, so that he seemed to have a permanent stare.

I saw him take in my empty plate. An expression that could have been anger flitted across his face, then was gone.

‘Thanks for taking care of my shoulder last night,’ I said, offering my hand. His was thin and bony, and there was no return pressure when we shook.

‘I was glad to help.’ The voice was a surprise, deep and booming, a stentorian shock coming from such a slight frame. ‘I gather you’re out here to take a look at the body that’s been found.’