Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

She gently swabbed a cut with antiseptic. ‘That it was murder.’

Thanks to Fraser, there probably wasn’t any harm in confirming what everyone on Runa almost certainly already knew, but I still felt reluctant to talk about it, even with Ellen.

‘It’s all right, I know I shouldn’t ask,’ she said, quickly. ‘I just can’t believe anything like that could happen here. The bar was full of talk about it earlier. No one can think who the victim can be, let alone imagine anyone from here being involved.’

I gave a non-committal murmur. This was exactly what we’d hoped to avoid. Now gossip and rumour would fill the vacuum left by the absence of hard fact, muddying the water and stirring up a silt of mistrust. And the only person to benefit would be the killer.

‘So will you be coming back to Runa for your next holiday?’ Ellen asked, deliberately lightening the mood.

I started to laugh. It hurt. ‘Don’t,’ I told her, wincing.

She smiled. ‘Sorry. But are you always as accident prone as this?’

‘Not usually. Must be this place.’

Her smile faded. ‘Aye, I can believe it.’

It was too good an opening to miss. ‘So what about you? Do you like it out here?’

She suddenly became preoccupied with a cut. ‘It’s not so bad. You should be here in summer. The nights are glorious. Makes up for days like this.’

‘But…’ I prompted.

‘But…it’s a small island. You see the same faces all the time. A few contractors or the occasional tourist, but that’s all. And, financially, it’s a struggle keeping your head above water. Sometimes I wish…ah, well, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Go on.’

Unguarded, her face showed the sadness I guessed she normally kept in check. ‘I wish I could get away from here. Leave this place-the hotel, the island-behind me, and take Anna and just go. Anywhere. Somewhere where there are decent schools, and shops, and restaurants, and people you don’t know, who don’t know you and your business.’

‘So why don’t you?’

There was defeat in the way she shook her head. ‘It isn’t that easy. I grew up on Runa, and everything I’ve got is here. Besides, what would I do?’

‘Andrew Brody told me you’d been to college on the mainland. Isn’t that something you could use?’

‘Been telling tales, has he?’ She looked as though she wasn’t sure whether to be angry or amused. ‘Aye, I spent a couple of years at catering college in Dundee. That’s where I learned first aid, all that Health and Safety nonsense. Fancied myself as a chef at one point. But then my father was taken ill, so I came back. Only temporarily, I thought. But then I found myself with a child to support, and jobs aren’t exactly plentiful round here. So when he died I carried on running this place.’

She raised an eyebrow at me.

‘Aren’t you going to ask?’

‘Ask what?’

‘About Anna’s father.’

‘Not when you’re putting antiseptic on my cuts, no.’

‘Good. Just so you know, let’s just say there was never any future there.’ Her tone made it clear the subject was closed. She went back to her swabbing. ‘So what else did Andrew Brody tell you?’

‘Not much. I’d hate to get him barred from the hotel.’

‘Not much danger of that.’ She laughed. ‘Anna’s too fond of him. I suppose I am as well, though don’t go telling him that, mind. He’s protective enough as it is.’

She paused. I guessed what was coming.

‘Do you know about his daughter?’ she asked.

‘He told me.’

‘He must like you. It isn’t something he talks about as a rule. The girl was a bit wild, from what I gather. Still, I can’t imagine what it must be like for him, not knowing what happened to her. He tried to track her down after he’d retired, but he never found her. So then he came out here.’

Her expression softened.

‘Don’t take this wrong. But in a way all this has been good for him. Given him a new lease of life. Some people aren’t made for retirement, and Andrew’s one of them. I think he must have been a pretty good policeman.’

So did I. I was glad he was here. More so now than ever.

Ellen dropped the bloodied cotton wool into a bowl. ‘There you go. Best thing you can do now is have a hot shower and get some sleep. I’ll give you some salve to put on your burns.’

A sudden gust of wind struck the hotel, making the entire structure seem to vibrate. Ellen cocked her head, listening.

‘Storm’s getting up,’ she said.

THE RAIN STARTED again during what was left of the night, reducing what remained of the community centre to an uneven mound of grey and black ash. Wraiths of smoke rose from it to be whipped away in the wind. One corner remained partially intact, a few feet of scorched wood that petered out to nothing. In places recognizable shapes still protruded through the wreckage: the corner of a fire-buckled steel cabinet, or skeletal chair legs that poked through the ash like dead branches through a grey snowdrift.

It was a dismal scene, made even more depressing by the dark, heavy clouds that obscured the tops of the low hills. The rain was coming down in near-horizontal sheets. And the gale seemed to have worsened, lashing everything in its path with what seemed like deliberate malevolence.

Brody, Fraser and I had gone out to the community centre as soon as it was light. I felt exhausted. I’d had less than four hours’ sleep and I ached all over. My shoulder throbbed relentlessly, wrenched during my escape from the fire. I’d hardly recognized myself in the shaving mirror that morning. The skin of my face felt sunburned, peppered with small gashes from the flying glass. My eyebrows and eyelashes had been singed off, giving me a strange, startled expression.

Still, as Strachan had said, it could have been much worse.

Brody and Fraser stood behind me as I studied the smoking wreckage. By rights I should have waited until a fire inspector had made sure that the structure was safe, but there was no telling when that would be. I was under no illusion that Janice Donaldson’s remains would have survived this second incineration.

But I had to see for myself.

The rain fell as if the sky were made from water, tamping down the ashes and dampening the outer layer to a black mush. Even so, it hadn’t beaten the fire completely. The debris was still smouldering from within. I could feel the heat from it on my face, contrasting the chill against my back.

‘Do you think there’s a chance anything could still be intact?’ Brody asked.

‘Not really.’ My voice was still hoarse from the smoke.

Fraser gave an irritable sigh. He looked bedraggled and miserable in the rain. ‘So why bother?’

‘To make sure.’

I could make out one blackened corner of my flight case, protruding from the ashes of what had been the medical clinic. It was open, its contents reduced to so much char. Just beyond it was the stainless steel trolley where I’d worked on Janice Donaldson’s cranium. The trolley was lying on its side, half buried under the remains of the roof. The skull and jawbone were nowhere to be seen, but I didn’t hold out much hope. The already calcined bones would have been shattered to powder by the impact. A few teeth might have survived, but nothing more. In any event, whatever was left would have to wait until a forensic team arrived to sift through the debris. It would take more resources than I had to carry out a proper search.

I brushed a piece of windblown ash from my face as I carefully picked my way towards the fridge. The dead woman’s hand had been inside it, and there was a chance the insulation had protected it. But that hope quickly died when I cleared away the covering of debris. The fridge’s white enamel had been burned black and the rubber seal had melted, letting the door swing open to expose the contents to the flames. Of Janice Donaldson’s hand, all that was left was bone, cooked to a dark caramel colour by the heat.