Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

He didn’t have to tell me. But I didn’t think I’d be in any danger. There was no reason for the killer to come back here now, not any more.

Besides, there were things I needed to do.

I watched the Range Rover bump down the track to the road. The rain beat a lunatic’s Morse code on my coat as I turned back to where the burned-out camper van waited. By now the downpour had tamped down the ashes, so that the wind only plucked off the occasional piece of fly-blown char. Set against the rock-strewn slopes of Beinn Tuiridh, the grey-black hulk seemed almost a part of the barren landscape.

A ring of burned grass surrounded it, where the vegetation had been caught by the fire. Shivering in the freezing wind, I stayed on its edge, trying to visualise the camper van as it had been, forming a picture of how the transformation to its current state had come about.

Then I turned my attention to Duncan’s body.

It wasn’t easy. The remains I deal with are usually those of strangers. I know them only through their death, not their life. This was different, and it was hard to reconcile my memory of the young constable with what was in front of me.

What was left of Duncan McKinney lay amongst the burned shell of the camper van. The fire had transformed him into a thing of charred flesh and bone, a blackened marionette that no longer looked human. I thought about the last time I’d seen him, how he’d seemed troubled as he’d driven me into the village from the clinic. I wished now I’d tried harder to make him say what was on his mind. But I hadn’t. I’d let him drive off, to spend the last few hours of his life alone out here.

I pushed the regret away. Thinking like that wouldn’t help me, or him. Rain dripped from my hood as I stared down at the corpse, letting my mind clear of thoughts of who it had been. Gradually, I began to see it without the filter of emotions. You want to catch whoever did this? Forget Duncan. Put aside the person.

Look at the puzzle.

The body was lying face down. The clothes had been burned from it, as had most of the skin and soft tissue, exposing scorched internal organs that had been protected by the torso’s cocoon. Its arms were bent at the elbows, pulled up as their tendons had contracted. The legs were similarly contorted, throwing the hips and lower body slightly out to one side as they had drawn up in the heat. Part of what remained of the tabletop was visible underneath the body. The feet were nearest the door, the head turned slightly to the right and pointing towards where the small couch had been.

There was nothing left of the couch but a buckled frame and a few blackened springs. Something else was lying amongst them. Leaning forward I recognized the steel cylinder of Duncan’s Maglite, blistered and dulled by the fire.

My camera had been destroyed in the clinic along with the rest of my equipment, so I made do with sketching the body’s position on a notepad I’d borrowed from the Range Rover. It wasn’t perfect, as the sling made drawing difficult, and I had to shield the pad from the rain. But I did the best I could.

That finished, I began to study the body in more detail. Careful not to disturb anything, I leaned as close as I could, until I saw what I’d been looking for.

A gaping hole in the skull, the size of a man’s fist.

The sound of a car coming down the track disturbed my thoughts. I looked round, surprised that Brody and Fraser were back so soon. But it wasn’t the police Range Rover that was approaching, it was Strachan’s gunmetal-grey Saab.

Brody’s warning sprang uncomfortably to mind. Anybody shows up, anyone at all, be bloody careful. I climbed to my feet, slipping my notepad away, and went to meet him as the car pulled up. He climbed out, staring past me at the camper van, too shocked to raise the hood of his coat.

‘Christ! This burnt down as well?’

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

But Strachan wasn’t listening. His eyes widened as he saw what was lying in the wreckage. ‘Oh, my God!’

He stared, blood draining from his face. Abruptly, he twisted away, doubling up as he vomited. He straightened slowly, fumbling in his pocket for something to wipe his mouth.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

He nodded, white-faced. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Who…who is it? The young policeman?’

‘Brody and Fraser are going to be back any time,’ I said, by way of answer. ‘You shouldn’t let them find you here.’

‘To hell with them! This is my home! I’ve spent the past five years getting this place back on its feet, and now…’ He broke off, running his hand through his rain-flattened hair. ‘This can’t be happening. I thought the community centre might be an accident, but this…’

I didn’t say anything. Strachan was recovering from the shock now. He lifted his face to the clouded sky, oblivious to the wind and rain.

‘The police won’t be able to get out here in this weather. And you’re not going to be able to keep this quiet. There are going to be a lot of frightened and angry people wanting answers. You’ve got to let me help. They’ll listen to me more than your police sergeant. Or Andrew Brody, come to that.’

There was a look of determination on the chiselled features as he stared across at me.

‘I’m not going to let someone destroy everything we’ve done here.’

It was tempting. I knew from bitter experience how ugly the mood could turn in a small community like this. I’d felt the brunt of it myself once, and that had been in a community I’d been part of. Out here, cut off from all contact with the outside world, I didn’t want to think what might happen.

The question was, how far we could afford to trust anyone? Even Strachan?

Still, there was one way he could help. ‘Could we use the radio on your yacht?’

He looked surprised. ‘My yacht? Yes, of course. It’s got satellite communication as well if you need it. Why, aren’t the police radios working?’

I didn’t want to tell him we didn’t have any means of contacting the mainland at all, but I had to give some reason for asking. ‘We lost one of them in the fire. It’s just useful to know there’s an alternative if Fraser’s not around.’

Strachan seemed to accept my explanation. Subdued again, he stared at the camper van.

‘What was his name?’

‘Duncan McKinney.’

‘Poor devil,’ he said, softly. He looked at me. ‘Remember what I said. Anything you need, anything at all.’

He returned to his car and set off back down the track. As the Saab neared the road, I saw the distinctive shape of the police Range Rover heading towards it. The road’s narrowness forced the two cars to slow as they skirted each other, like two dogs warily circling before a fight. Then they were clear, and the Saab accelerated away with a smooth growl.

Keeping my back to the wind, I waited for the Range Rover to pull up. Brody and Fraser climbed out. While Fraser went to open the back, Brody came over, staring at the rapidly disappearing fleck of Strachan’s car.

‘What was he doing here?’

‘He came to offer his help.’

His chin jutted. ‘We can manage without that.’

‘That depends.’

I told him my idea of using the yacht’s radio. Brody sighed.

‘I should have thought of that myself. But we don’t need Strachan’s yacht. Any of the boats in the harbour will have ship-to-shore. We can use the ferry’s.’

‘The yacht’s nearer,’ I pointed out.

Brody’s jaw worked at the prospect of asking Strachan for a favour. But much as he might dislike the idea, he knew it made sense.

He gave a terse nod. ‘Aye. You’re right.’

Fraser came over, clutching an armful of rusted steel reinforcing rods, the sort used for concrete foundations.