Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

‘Not until I’ve heard what she’s got to say,’ he declared, jerking his chin towards where Karen Tait waited miserably with her daughter.

Brody hadn’t argued, but I thought I knew why. Tait might not respond to pressure from him or Fraser, but Kinross was a different matter. He was one of her own, and I didn’t think she’d be able to hold out against him.

Mother and daughter were sitting at the same table where the men had been playing cards that afternoon, out of view of where the body now lay. Mary’s features bore the same vacant expression as when she’d looked up at my window from the street. She’d been persuaded to take off Maggie’s coat. Wrapped in a bin-liner, it was now locked out of sight in the back of the police Range Rover. There had been nothing in its pockets, and no visible bloodstains or signs of damage, but Forensics would still need to examine it for trace evidence. Perhaps it was my imagination, but as I’d watched the girl take it off it already seemed to have lost some of its brightness, the vivid red starting to look faded and worn.

Kinross had given Mary his heavy oilskin to wear instead. Apparently oblivious to the cold, he’d helped her on with it almost tenderly. But there was no tenderness in his face as he stared at her mother.

Karen Tait stared resolutely down at the table’s cigarette-burned Formica, refusing to look at any of us. Brody took the chair opposite her, and I noticed that Fraser no longer made any objection to him taking over. The retired detective looked tired, but there was no hint of it when he spoke.

‘All right, Karen. Where did Mary get the coat?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Come on, we all know it belongs to Maggie Cassidy. So why is Mary wearing it?’

‘I told you, it’s hers,’ she said dully, and flinched as Kinross suddenly slammed his hand down on the table.

‘Don’t lie! We’ve all seen Maggie wearing it!’

‘Easy,’ Fraser growled. But he backed off when Brody gave a small shake of his head.

‘You saw what was on the fire, Karen!’ Kinross’s voice held part warning, part entreaty. ‘For Christ’s sake, tell us where Mary got the coat!’

‘It’s hers, Iain, honestly!’

‘Don’t fucking lie to me!’

Tait’s resistance abruptly collapsed. ‘I don’t know! I only saw it tonight! I swear, that’s the God’s honest truth! She must have found it.’

‘Where?’

‘How do I know? You know what she’s like, she wanders all over the island. She could have got it anywhere!’

‘Jesus, Karen,’ Kinross said in disgust.

‘It’s a good coat! Better than I can afford! You think I’m going to throw it away? And don’t you look at me like that, lain Kinross! You never worried about Mary being out on the nights you’ve wanted to come round!’

Kinross started towards her, but Brody put out a restraining arm.

‘Calm down. We need to find out where she found it.’ He turned back to Tait. ‘What time did Mary go out?’

She gave a sullen shrug. ‘I don’t know. She was out when I got back from the hotel.’

‘Which was when?’

‘Half past eleven…twelve o’clock.’

‘And what time did she get in?’

‘How should I know? I fell asleep.’

‘So when did you see her again?’ Brody asked, patiently.

Tait gave an irritable sigh. ‘Not until all the commotion with the fire woke me up.’

‘And she had the coat then?’

‘Yes, I’ve already told you!’

If he felt any contempt for the woman, Brody didn’t show it as he switched his attention to her daughter.

‘Hello, Mary. You know who I am, don’t you?’

She looked at Brody without comprehension, then went back to the small torch she’d been playing with. It was a child’s, plastic and brightly coloured. A few flyaway strands of hair had fallen down across her eyes, but she didn’t seem to notice as she shone the torch beam into her face, switching it on and off.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Kinross said. Despite his words, his tone wasn’t unkind. ‘She probably doesn’t remember where she got it herself.’

‘No harm in trying. Mary? Look at me, Mary.’

Brody spoke gently. Finally, she seemed to notice him. He gave her a smile.

‘That’s a nice coat, Mary.’

Nothing. Then, suddenly, a shy smile lit her face.

‘It’s pretty.’ Her voice was soft, like a little girl’s.

‘Yes, it’s very pretty. Where did you get it?’

‘It’s mine.’

‘I know. But can you tell me where you got it from?’

‘From the man.’

I felt rather than saw Brody stiffen. ‘Which man was that? Is he here now?’

She laughed. ‘No!’

‘Can you tell me who he is?’

‘The man.’

She said it as though it were obvious.

‘This man…Will you show me where he gave you the coat?’

‘He didn’t give it to me.’

‘You mean you found it?’

She nodded, absently. ‘When they ran off. After all the noise.’

‘Who ran off? What noise, Mary?’

But he’d lost her. Brody continued to try for a while, but it was obvious that Mary had told us as much as she was going to. He told Fraser to drive them home, and then come straight back. Kinross also left, but before he did he gave one last look towards the back of the workshop where he and Guthrie had laid the body.

‘She always was one for getting into trouble,’ he said, sadly. Then he went out, letting the workshop door bang shut behind him.

Outside, the wind’s banshee wail seemed louder than ever. The rain had started again, thundering against the corrugated roof and almost drowning out the chug of the workshop’s generator. Brody and I went over to the body. Covered by the tarpaulin, it looked like a primitive sarcophagus as it lay on the concrete floor.

‘You think it’s her?’ Brody asked.

I’d told him about Maggie’s visit to my room earlier that night. How she’d known Janice Donaldson’s first name, but wouldn’t say who had told her. I remembered the pensive smile she’d given me as she’d left my room. Tomorrow, I promise. Except there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow for Maggie.

I nodded. ‘Don’t you?’

Brody sighed. ‘Aye. But let’s see if we can be more sure.’ He glanced at me. ‘You ready?’

The honest answer would have been no. You never can be, not when it’s someone you know. Someone you liked. But I just nodded and pulled back the tarpaulin. A waft of warm air greeted me, carrying with it an odour of overcooked meat. The way we respond to smells is largely a matter of context. Given its source, this one was nauseatingly out of place.

I crouched down beside the body. Shrunken by the fire, it looked pitifully small. Whatever clothing it had worn had burned away, as well as much of the soft tissue. The flames had twisted and warped it, exposing caramelised bone and tendons, drawing up the limbs into the characteristic boxer’s crouch.

It was a sight that was becoming sickeningly familiar.

‘So what do you think?’ Brody asked.

An image of Maggie’s gamine grin rose up in my mind. Almost angrily, I pushed it away. Compartmentalise. This is work. Save the rest for later.

‘It’s female. The cranium’s way too small to be a man’s.’ I took a deep breath, looking at the smooth bone of the skull that was exposed beneath the blackened scraps of flesh. ‘Also, the chin is pointed, and the forehead and eyebrow ridge are both smooth. A man’s would be much heavier and more pronounced. Then there’s the height.’

I indicated where the thigh bone was showing through the burned muscle tissue, aware of the awful intimacy of what we were doing.

‘It’s hard to be precise when the body’s drawn up like this, but judging by the length of the femur this was someone quite short, even for a woman. Five foot, perhaps a little less. Certainly no taller.’