Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

I thought about all the times I’d seen Maggie brandishing her tape recorder. Like many modern journalists, she’d relied on it more than a notepad and pen. So if she’d kept some sort of record while she’d been on the island, it didn’t have to be a written one.

Brody could barely contain his impatience as I peeled off another plastic bag. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell Wallace this was my decision,’ he said, giving Fraser a shrewd glance.

Fro once the police sergeant didn’t argue. Evidence as potentially important-and vulnerable-as this could hardly be left until SOC arrived. Putting his hand into the plastic bag, Brody reached under the car sill and picked up the dictaphone. Then, retracing his steps to where Fraser and I waited, he reversed the bag so the muddied recorder was enclosed in it.

He held it up so we could get a better look. The voice recorder was digital, a Sony model similar to the one I’d lost in the fire.

‘Wonder how long the batteries last on these things?’ Brody mused.

‘Long enough,’ I told him. ‘It’s still recording.’

‘What?’ He stared at it. ‘You’re joking.’

‘It started when you spoke. Must be voice activated.’

He studied the recorder’s LCD display. ‘So this could have been running when Maggie was killed?’

‘Unless it was turned on accidentally when it was knocked out of the car, then yes.’

The wind wailed around us as we all considered that. Brody rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, staring at the small silver machine in the plastic bag. I knew, even before he spoke, what he was going to say next.

‘How do I play it?’

THE DICTAPHONE HISSED into silence after the last recording had finished. None of us spoke. The memory of what we’d just heard was still resonating, as devastating as a shell burst. Brody clicked off the machine, then stared into space, motionless as a statue.

I wanted to say something to him, but I’d no idea what.

The police Range Rover rocked in the wind, rain beating a tattoo on its roof. We’d retreated back to its warmth to play Maggie’s dictaphone. Each of the recordings she’d made were stored in its memory as a separate file, which in turn were arranged into folders. There were four folders in all, one titled Work, two blank and empty. The fourth was headed simply Diary.

The entries were ordered by date. About a dozen of them had been made since Maggie had arrived on Runa.

Brody had selected the most recent. According to the logged time and date, it had been made just before midnight. Around the time that Rose Cassidy had told us that Maggie had gone out.

‘Here goes,’ Brody had said, and pressed the play button through the plastic bag.

Maggie’s dead voice had issued eerily from the speaker.

Well, this is it. No sign of him yet, but I’m a few minutes early. Just hope he turns up after all this…

‘Hope who turns up? Come on, tell us the bastard’s name,’ Fraser muttered. But Maggie had other things on her mind.

God, what am I doing here? I was actually excited about this earlier, but it all seems a bit pointless now. Why the hell did Kevin Kinross have to tell me the woman’s name? I’m a hack on a local newspaper, not an investigative journalist! How did he know it anyway? And that stupid stunt with David Hunter. ‘Is the victim called Janice?’ Really slick, Mags. Now he thinks I’m withholding information. But I can’t just drop Kevin in it. So what do I do now?

There was a sound it took me a moment to place-Maggie was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She gave a sigh.

First things first. Right now I need to get my head cleared. Don’t want to make a hash of things now, not when I’ve pushed so hard for this. Christ, this car’s still like a bloody oven… There was a rustling noise: she was taking off her coat. Must admit, I’m starting to feel a bit spooked. Probably just all this other business, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m being stupid. I mean, there’s a killer loose on the island, for Christ’s sake! If I heard about anyone else doing this I’d…Hang on, what was that?

There was a long pause. The only sound was Maggie’s breathing, quick and nervous.

I’m getting jumpy. Can’t see anything now. Looked like a flash, like a torch. Probably a shooting star, or something. It’s so dark out here I can’t tell what’s land and what’s sky. Still…

There was an audible clunk.

Right, very safety conscious. Drive out to the middle of nowhere and then lock your doors. I mean, I’m not really worried. Not really. The man just wants to talk in private, that’s all, and the way tongues wag on this island you can hardly blame him. Even so, I’m starting to wonder if this is such a good idea. Better be worth it. I’ll give him five more minutes, and if he’s not here then-Shit!

We could hear that her breathing had become fast and ragged.

There’s that flash again. That’s no bloody shooting star, somebody’s out there! Right, that’s it, I’m going…

There was a coughing whine as the car’s engine turned over but wouldn’t start. Over it we could hear Maggie’s voice, further away now, as though she’d just thrust the dictaphone aside in her haste to start the Mini.

Come on, come on! Oh, don’t do this! I don’t believe this, come on, car, don’t be such a fucking cliche! Oh, you fucking heap of junk, come on!

Calm down, you’re flooding it! I found myself urging her, even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Then she gave a laugh of pure relief.

Oh, thank Christ! There’s headlights. He’s here. Bloody late, but I’ll forgive him that! There was another laugh, stronger this time, then a snuffle of eyes being wiped and nose being blown. God, some bloody reporter he’s going to think I am! Come on, Mags, get your act together. You’re supposed to be a professional. Shit, I can’t see a bloody thing for his headlights. How about turning them off, eh? Right, here he comes, let’s hide this thing out of the way…

We heard more rustling as she moved the dictaphone somewhere out of sight. There was the clunk of the door locks being taken off, then the creak of a door opening. When Maggie spoke again, she sounded bright and cocky.

Hi. What time do you call this, then? Thought you said midnight? Look, how about turning off the headlights? I can’t see a…Oh, sorry, I didn’t…Hey, what are you…Oh, Jesus! JESUS!

I bowed my head as Maggie’s screams and pleas began to shrill out of the speaker. The dictaphone had dutifully recorded everything. There were thumps and crackles as it was buffeted during the struggle, but they didn’t drown out the awful soundtrack of Maggie’s murder.

The confusion of cries and scrambling reached a climax, then there was a sudden silence. It was broken only by a faint noise, like rushing water. We were listening to a recording of the wind, I realized. The dictaphone had been knocked from the car as Maggie made her short-lived escape. With nothing louder to activate it, the machine soon shut off. There was a brief lull, then Brody’s voice emerged.

Wonder how long the batteries last on these things?

I heard my own voice answer, Long enough. It’s still-

Brody stopped it there.

None of us looked at each other. It was as though, by listening to the recording of Maggie’s killing, we’d colluded in something shameful.

‘Why couldn’t she have just said the bastard’s name?’ Fraser said. Even he sounded shaken.

I stirred. ‘She’d no reason to. The recording was for her own benefit. Whoever it was, she didn’t think she was in any danger from him. She was only nervous while she was waiting, not once he’d arrived.’

‘Got it wrong, didn’t she?’ Fraser said. ‘All that business with the headlights. What’s the betting he left them on to dazzle her, so she wouldn’t see he’d got a knife?’