Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

Getting to my feet, I broke the tense silence. ‘Perhaps we should all be going.’

Strachan still looked angry, twin patches of colour on his face. ‘Yes, of course.’ But he hesitated. ‘Actually…I’d appreciate it if you’d stay for a while, David. Just to make sure that Grace is all right later.’

I’d have expected him to want to be alone with his wife. I glanced at Brody. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

‘There’s nothing for you to do back at the village. We can meet up at my place later to talk things through.’

I waited in the kitchen as Strachan showed the other two out. The front door closed. When he came back he seemed ill at ease. Almost embarrassed. But I realized that today had been traumatic for him too. Perhaps he wanted someone to reassure him that Grace would be all right, that what had happened wasn’t his fault. Or perhaps he just wanted company.

‘Thanks for staying. Just for an hour or so, until Grace goes to bed, then I’ll run you back to the hotel.’

‘Will she be all right left on her own?’ I asked.

That didn’t seem to have occurred to him. ‘Well…You can always stay here, I suppose. Or take my car. It’s an automatic, so you should be able to drive it one-handed.’

I’d already had one accident on Runa, and the prospect of trying to drive in my sling didn’t appeal. But I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

‘Anyway, I’m forgetting my manners,’ Strachan went on. ‘Can I get you a drink? I’ve a bottle of twenty-year-old malt waiting to be opened.’

‘Don’t open it on my account.’

He grinned. ‘It’s the least I can do. Come on, let’s go into the sitting room.’

He led me out across the hallway into a large sitting room. It displayed the same restrained taste as the rest of the house. Two black leather sofas faced each other across a smoked glass coffee table, and the parquet floor was covered with thick rugs. There was another abstract oil painting of Grace’s above the fireplace, flanked on either side by floor to ceiling bookshelves. A glass case of flint tools and arrowheads stood against one wall, and there were other archaeological artefacts-fragments of ancient pottery, stone carvings-placed strategically around the room, each subtly picked out by a concealed light.

I browsed the bookshelves while Strachan opened a black lacquered drinks cabinet. Most of the titles were non-fiction. There were a few biographies of explorers such as Livingstone and Burton, but most were academic texts on archaeology and anthropology. There were several on primitive burial traditions, I noticed. I took down one called Past Voices, Past Lives and started leafing through it.

‘The chapter on Tibetan sky burials is interesting,’ Strachan said. ‘They used to take their dead up on mountains and feed them to the birds. Thought they’d carry their spirits to heaven.’

He set a bottle of malt on the coffee table with two thick tumblers and sat down on one of the leather sofas.

‘I didn’t think you drank,’ I said, putting the book back and going to the other sofa.

‘I don’t. But right now I feel like breaking my rule.’ He poured the whiskies and handed one to me. ‘Slainte.’

The malt was peaty but mellow. Strachan took a drink and began to cough.

‘Christ! Is it any good?’ he asked, eyes watering.

‘Very.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

He took another drink.

‘You could do with getting some rest yourself,’ I told him. ‘Today’s been rough on you as well.’

‘I’ll cope.’

But his words couldn’t disguise his exhaustion. He put his head back on the sofa, resting the nearly empty glass on his chest.

‘My father always used to say that it’s the things you never see coming you have to watch out for.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Now I know what he meant. You think you’re finally in control of your life, and then-bam! Something you never expected suddenly blindsides you.’

‘That’s just life. You can’t guard against everything.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ He stared broodingly into his glass. I had the feeling he was about to broach the real reason he’d asked me to stay. ‘This assault…do you think Grace’ll be all right? I don’t mean physically. Do you think there’ll be any…I don’t know. Psychological scars?’

I chose my words carefully. ‘I’m not a psychologist. But I’d say she’s handling it pretty well so far. And she strikes me as being pretty resilient.’

He still seemed troubled. ‘I hope you’re right. It’s just that…Well, a few years ago Grace had a breakdown. She’d been pregnant, and she miscarried. There were complications. The doctors told her she couldn’t have any children. It hit her hard.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I thought of the wistfulness I’d seen on his wife’s face when she’d talked about children the other day. And the way she loved working at the school. Poor Grace. And poor Strachan, I thought. I’d envied them their relationship, forgetting that tragedy was no respecter of wealth or glamour. ‘Did you ever consider adopting?’

Strachan gave a quick shake of his head and took another drink of whisky. ‘It wouldn’t be right for us. It’s fine, though, really. She’s OK. But that’s why we left South Africa and did so much travelling. We wanted a fresh start. That’s why we settled here. Runa seemed like a sort of…of sanctuary. Somewhere we could pull up the drawbridge and feel safe. And now this happens.’

‘It’s a small island. Whoever did it won’t get away.’

‘Perhaps not. But Runa won’t feel the same. And I worry what it’ll do to Grace.’

He was slurring his words slightly, fatigue and reaction compounding the effect of the alcohol. He drained his glass and reached for the bottle. ‘Another?’

‘No thanks.’

I was starting to think that I should be going. He needed to be with his wife, not down here getting drunk and maudlin with me. And driving one-handed would be hard enough without two whiskies inside me.

I was saved from having to say anything by the sound of someone hammering on the front door. Strachan frowned and put the bottle of whisky back down.

‘Who the hell’s that? If it’s bloody Bruce Cameron again…’ He stood up, swaying. ‘Now I remember why I don’t drink.’

‘Shall I see who it is?’ I offered.

‘No, I’ll go.’

Still, he didn’t object when I went with him into the hallway. The events of the last few hours had rattled everyone. I hung back as he opened the door, and it was only when I recognised Maggie Cassidy’s red coat and relaxed that I realized how keyed up I was myself.

But Strachan wasn’t pleased to see her. ‘What do you want?’ he asked without inviting her in.

The rain blustered through the open doorway as Maggie stood framed in it. Her elfin face looked tiny inside the hood of her outsized coat. She gave me a glance that was almost furtive, then addressed Strachan.

‘Sorry to disturb you, but I heard about what happened. I just wanted to see how your wife was.’

‘We’ve nothing to say, if that’s why you’re here.’

She shook her head earnestly. ‘No, I…I brought this.’ She held up a cloth-covered basin. ‘It’s chicken soup. My gran’s speciality.’

That obviously wasn’t what Strachan expected. ‘Oh. Well…thank you.’

Maggie gave an embarrassed smile as she held out the soup. It reminded me of the way she’d smiled at Duncan just before she’d tricked him by dropping her shoulder bag, and I suddenly knew what was about to happen. I opened my mouth to warn him, but as Strachan started to take it from her the basin slipped between their hands. Soup and broken crockery went everywhere as it shattered on the floor.