Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

‘Looks like Bruce has had an accident,’ Maggie said.

As she slowed I could see it was Cameron, white face caught in the headlights as he worked over the chain of his mountain bike. There was mud smeared on the yellow fabric of his cape.

‘Don’t tell me he cycled out here in this?’ I said, realizing he must still be on his way back from Strachan’s house.

‘Aye. I passed him on the way out. Prides himself on being out in all weather. Bloody amadan.’

I didn’t have to understand Gaelic to know an insult when I heard one. Cameron shielded his eyes against the car’s lights as we pulled up, a spanner still clutched in his hand. Maggie wound down the window and leaned out, screwing her face up against the rain.

‘You want a lift yet, Bruce?’ she called.

The reflective cape thrashed around him in the wind, moulding to his skinny frame like a live thing and threatening to blow him off balance. No wonder he’d come off his bike, I thought. He looked frozen and soaked, but when he saw me in the car his expression hardened.

‘I can manage.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Maggie muttered. She closed the window and pulled away. ‘God, but that man seriously gets up my nose. Got all snotty the other day when I asked to do a story about him. Just human interest stuff because he’s a teacher and male nurse, but he acted like I was scum for suggesting it. I wouldn’t have minded, but he could hardly keep his eyes off my boobs. Randy bugger.’

Cameron’s feelings for Grace evidently didn’t stop him ogling other women, I thought. And then I realized something else, something that hit me so hard I felt winded.

He’d been using the spanner with his left hand.

I turned to look back through the rear window. But the darkness and rain had swallowed him up.

‘CAMERON’S AN AWKWARD sod. But I don’t see him as a killer,’ Brody said, putting the kettle on the cooker and lighting the gas under it.

We were in his small kitchen, sitting at his spotlessly clean table while he made tea. I’d had Maggie drop me off at the hotel, but only stayed long enough to collect Fraser. The Range Rover had been parked outside, and I’d expected to find him in the bar. Instead he’d been in his room, and when I’d knocked I could hear him noisily blowing his nose before he came to the door. When he opened it his room was in darkness, and his face was blotched and red. But his manner was as gruff as ever as I said we needed to talk to Brody.

‘I’m not saying he is,’ I said, as the old DI shook out the match he’d used to light the gas. ‘But he was using the bike spanner with his left hand. We know that whoever killed Duncan was left-handed. And Grace was hit on her right cheek, which suggests the same thing about her attacker.’

Frasers’ sniffed dismissively. ‘How can you be sure Strachan’s wife wasn’t given a backhand?’

‘I can’t,’ I admitted. ‘For all I know it could be two different people who attacked them, come to that. But Duncan was hit hard enough to punch a hole in his skull, and send impact fractures halfway across it. You can’t get that sort of force behind a backhanded swing.’

Fraser’s mouth turned down so far the tips of his moustache touched either side of his chin. ‘Cameron’s a prick, I’ll grant you that. But I can’t see a runt like him getting the better of Duncan.’

‘Duncan was hit from behind. He didn’t get a chance to defend himself,’ I reminded him. ‘We already know that Cameron’s got a thing about Grace, and he also fits the blackmail theory. He’s the schoolteacher, so he’d hardly want it known if he was using a prostitute. If Janice Donaldson threatened to tell he might have killed her to keep it quiet.’

Brody dropped tea bags into a pot. ‘Perhaps. But assuming you’re right, how did he get from the school to the yacht in time to attack Grace?’

‘For all we know he could have left before her. He could have taken his mountain bike along the coastal path that Strachan told us about. Dangerous in this weather, but he might have chanced it if he was desperate.’

The kettle set up a mournful whistling as steam began to trail from the cap on its spout. Brody turned off the flame and poured the boiling water into the teapot. With his right hand, I noticed.

I was getting obsessive.

He brought the teapot and three mugs over to the table. ‘It’s possible. But let’s forget Cameron for now and look at what else we’ve got,’ he said, setting the pot down on a place mat and putting cork coasters in front of each of us for the mugs. ‘The body of a murdered prostitute turns up, badly burned. Whoever killed her was apparently unconcerned about it being found, until word gets out it’s being treated as a murder inquiry.’

He didn’t look at Fraser as he spoke, but he didn’t have to.

‘The killer panics and decides to get rid of the remains properly this time, as well as whatever other evidence might be left. In the process he kills a police officer, and very nearly the forensic expert as well.’ He stirred the teapot, then replaced the lid and looked questioningly at us. ‘Any comments?’

‘Bastard obviously gets off on fire,’ Fraser said. ‘Pyromaniac, or whatever it’s called.’

I wasn’t so sure. ‘Have there been any other arson attacks or fires on the island?’ I asked Brody.

‘None that I know of. Not since I’ve been living here, anyway.’

‘So why now? I’m no psychologist, but I don’t think people just turn into fire-starters overnight.’

‘Could just be a way for him to hide his tracks,’ Fraser suggested.

‘Then we come back to why Janice Donaldson’s body was left in the cottage instead of being buried or thrown off a cliff. Chances are it would never have been found then. We’re missing something here,’ I insisted.

‘Or just complicating things when there’s no need,’ Fraser countered.

Brody looked thoughtful as he poured the tea. ‘Let’s go back to the attack on Grace. My feeling is that it was opportunistic. That she walked in on somebody as they were smashing the yacht’s comms system. So whoever it was, it had to be someone who knew we can’t use the police radios.’

‘That rules out Cameron,’ Fraser said, spooning sugar into his tea. ‘None of us told him. Had to be someone from the boatyard, if you ask me. Kinross or one of those other bearded bastards. They all knew our radios weren’t working. One of them could have legged it up to the yacht while we were on the ferry. They’d just about have time to smash up the comms and do the business with Strachan’s wife before they were disturbed.’

He put the wet spoon down on the table. Without a word, Brody picked it up and took it to the sink, then brought a cloth over to wipe up the tea stain.

‘Could be,’ he said, sitting back down. ‘But we can’t just assume it was one of them. We don’t know who else they might have told. And let’s not forget there’s someone else who knew we wanted to use the yacht’s radio.’

I could guess what was coming. ‘You mean Strachan?’

He nodded. ‘You asked him about it when he came out to the cottage. He’s not stupid; he’d have put two and two together.’

I’d come to respect Brody’s instincts, but I was starting to think he was letting his animosity cloud his judgement where Strachan was concerned. I’d seen his reaction when he’d realized Duncan was dead. Even if his shock had been feigned, I didn’t think anyone could make themselves throw up to order, no matter how good an actor they were.

Fraser obviously shared my doubts. ‘No way. We all saw the state he was in. The man was in bits. And why the hell would he attack his own wife and then come running for help? Doesn’t make sense.’