Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

But Brody remained calm as we carried out a quick search of the house. There was no sign of Grace.

‘We’re just wasting time!’ Strachan said as we finished, his panic nearing the surface.

‘Did you look in the outbuildings?’ Brody asked.

‘Yes! There’s only the barn, and she’s not in there!’

‘What about the cove?’

Strachan just stared at him. ‘I…No, but Grace never goes down there, not without me.’

‘Let’s take a look anyway, shall we?’

Strachan led us into the kitchen. A half-drunk cup of coffee stood on the table, a book opened but face down next to it, as though Grace had merely stepped out for a moment. Impatiently pushing the retriever aside, Strachan went out through the back door and rushed for the steps leading down to the cove.

I’d been half afraid we’d see Grace’s broken body lying on the shingle below us. But except for the yacht moored at the short jetty, the cove was empty. It was a beautiful boat, its hull squeaking against the rubber fenders as the sea threw it about, tall mast swinging back and forth like the arm of a broken metronome.

Strachan hurried along the jetty towards it. He bounded up the gangplank and ran to the cockpit. I was slower to board, struggling for balance with one arm strapped up. As I stepped on to the deck Strachan threw back the cockpit hatch and suddenly froze.

When I reached him I saw why.

Like the rest of the yacht, the cockpit was beautifully equipped: teak panels, stainless steel fittings, and an elaborate instrument console. Or what was left of it. The radio and satcom had been smashed to pieces, the deck below them littered with torn wires and broken circuitry.

Strachan stared at it for a moment, then rushed through the cockpit to the main cabin.

‘Grace? Oh, God, Grace!’

She lay on the cabin’s floor. Her head and shoulders were covered with a sack, but below that Grace’s white parka was clearly visible. She lay curled on her side, arms pulled behind her and tied behind her back.

From the waist down she was naked.

Or almost. Her feet hadn’t been bound, but her jeans had been left pulled down around her ankles, tethering them as securely as a rope. Her pants were around her knees, as though her attacker had been interrupted in the act of removing them.

She looked obscenely vulnerable lying there, her long legs bare and blue-white with the cold. She wasn’t moving. I thought we were too late, but then Strachan touched her and she suddenly began to thrash around.

‘Hold her, don’t let her hurt herself!’ I warned, trying to catch her feet.

‘It’s all right, Grace, it’s me! It’s me!’ Strachan said, yanking the sacking from her head.

Underneath it her hair was a tangled mess, obscuring her face. A piece of dirty cloth had been crammed into her mouth. Above it her eyes were wide and terrified, but then they fixed on Strachan and she immediately stopped struggling.

‘It’s all right, I’m here, it’s all right!’ he chanted, easing the gag from her mouth. She sucked in a breath, sobbing.

‘Michael, oh, thank God, Michael!’

Her face was flushed and puffy, the skin imprinted with the rough hessian pattern of the sack. Her right cheek was discoloured by a livid bruise, and her mouth was swollen and bloody. But other than that there were no obvious injuries I could see.

‘Are you all right? Are you hurt?’ Strachan was asking her, his voice cracked.

‘No, I…I don’t think so.’

‘Did he sexually assault you?’ Brody asked bluntly.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Strachan exploded. Even I was shocked at the question.

But Grace was shaking her head. ‘No…no, he didn’t…I wasn’t raped.’

Thank God, I thought. At least she’d been spared that. And it was probably better to deal with the issue now and get it out of the way. Perhaps Brody wasn’t being insensitive after all.

Tears were running down Strachan’s face as he tenderly brushed the hair from his wife’s face. ‘Who did it? Did you see him?’

‘I don’t know, I…I…’

He hugged her. ‘Shh, it’s all right, it’s over now. It’s over.’

Brody and I gave them as much privacy as we could while Strachan drew up Grace’s underwear and jeans. I tried to unfasten the rope binding her wrists, but it had been tied too tightly for me to manage with one hand. The skin was chafed and abraded, her hands white from restricted circulation. Brody had to search for a knife to cut it, then we stood back as Strachan helped Grace to her feet.

‘Help me carry her,’ Strachan said to Brody, their feud temporarily forgotten.

‘I can walk,’ Grace said.

‘I don’t think-’

‘I’m all right, I can walk!’

She was still crying, but there was none of the hysteria I’d feared. Brody and I stayed a discreet distance behind them as Strachan supported her along the jetty. Grace huddled against him, the two of them so oblivious to anyone else that I felt like an intruder.

As we climbed the steps out of the cove, the seagulls’ lonely cries sounded like mocking laughter on the wind.

I CLEANED AND dressed Grace’s wounds while Fraser took her statement. He’d arrived with a convoy of cars from the village shortly after we’d taken Grace back to the house. Strachan had objected to his wife being questioned so soon, but I’d suggested that it was best to get it over with. She would have to tell her story again when the mainland police arrived, but meanwhile it was better for her to describe what had happened while the memory was still fresh. Not only could early debriefing help avoid psychological trauma in assault victims, at least this way I’d be able to make sure Fraser didn’t push her too hard.

Somehow I didn’t think he’d be the most sensitive of interviewers.

Strachan had sent everyone who’d come to help search for Grace back home again, after he’d distractedly thanked and reassured them that she wasn’t badly hurt. Shock and anger was visible on all their faces. Even though news of Duncan’s death hadn’t yet spread, by now everyone had heard that the body found at the cottage had been murdered. But shocking as that might be, what had happened to Grace was even more so. The murder victim was unknown to them, whereas Grace was the wife of Runa’s benefactor, respected and well liked. An attack on her struck right at the heart of the community.

Kinross and Guthrie had been amongst those who’d come out to help with the search. As he’d prepared to leave, the look on the ferry captain’s face promised slaughter.

‘Whoever did this, he’s a dead man when we find him,’ he’d vowed to Strachan.

I didn’t think it was an empty threat. Emotions were running high all round. Given his infatuation with Grace, it was no surprise that Cameron had also rushed out to help with the search. He’d been the last to leave, stridently insisting that he had to see her. His protests had carried from the hallway into the kitchen where Brody and Fraser waited as I cleaned Grace’s wounds.

‘If she’s been injured I need to examine her,’ Cameron boomed, indignantly.

Strachan’s voice remained unmoved. ‘There’s no need. David’s doing that.’

‘Hunter?’ Cameron fairly spat the word. ‘With all due respect, Michael, if anyone’s going to treat Grace it should be me, not some…some ex-GP!’

‘Thanks, but I’ll decide who’s going to look after my wife.’

‘But Michael-’

‘I said no!’ There was a shocked pause. When Strachan spoke again it was with more restraint. ‘Go home, Bruce. If I need you, I’ll let you know.’

‘I seem to be causing trouble,’ Grace said, ruefully, as we heard the front door close. She had been stoically enduring my one-handed attempts to dab antiseptic on her injuries.