Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

The dog wagged its tail, oblivious to the tension as she tugged it towards the back door in the kitchen.

Brody came back downstairs. He gave a quick shake of his head.

‘Not there. Where’s Grace?’

‘Quietening the dog. She’s scared. I think she’s started to guess why we’re here.’

He sighed. ‘Strachan’s got a lot to answer for. Bad enough finding out your husband’s a murderer, let alone got a child by another woman.’ An expression of pain creased his features. ‘Christ, what the hell was Ellen thinking of…’

‘Brody,’ I said quickly, but it was too late.

Grace stood frozen in the kitchen doorway.

‘Mrs Strachan…’ Brody began.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispered. She’d gone white.

‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to hear like that.’

‘No…You’re lying! Michael wouldn’t. He wouldn’t!’

‘I’m very-’

‘Get out! Get out!’ It was more a sob than a shout.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ Brody said, quietly.

I didn’t like leaving her like that, but there was nothing I could do, or say, that would make any difference to Grace. As we went outside, she was hugging herself, her perfect face now a stricken mask. Then Brody had closed the door behind us, shutting her off from sight.

‘Christ. I didn’t mean that to happen.’

‘Well, it has.’ I felt unaccountably angry. ‘Let’s find Fraser.’

I pulled my coat hood tight as we made our way towards the outbuildings. It was much colder now. The wind seemed to be trying to push us back, flinging rain in icy blasts against us. Fraser was just emerging from the barn when we rounded the side of the house.

‘Find anything?’ Brody asked.

‘You’d better see for yourselves.’

He led us back into the barn. I’d last been here with Strachan, when Grace had been missing. Or when I’d thought she was missing, I reminded myself. He’d known all along where she was.

Fraser went to where a petrol-driven lawnmower stood in the far corner. Behind it was a large petrol container. There was no lid, only a broken plastic strap to show where one had been attached.

‘What’s the betting that the top we found near the camper van is from that?’ Fraser said. ‘Remember when Strachan’s wife’s car ran out of petrol? I’d put money that’s where he got his accelerant from to start the fires. Christ, if I get hold of the bastard…’

Brody’s jaw bunched as he looked down at the container. ‘Let’s check the boat.’

The yacht was unlocked. It was as we’d left it, the shattered remains of its comms still lying on the floor. But Strachan wasn’t on board.

‘So where the hell is he?’ Fraser asked, savagely, as we stood in the heaving cockpit. ‘Bastard could be anywhere.’

But even as he said it I knew there was only one place Strachan would have gone. Looking across at Brody I saw that he’d realized too.

He was on the mountain. At the burial cairns.

The storm was destroying itself. Roaring down from the Arctic Circle, the front had gathered speed and force as it crossed the North Atlantic. By the time it reached the UK mainland its elemental fury would be largely spent, torn apart by its own unsustainable violence.

On Runa, though, it had reached its peak, building into a frenzy as though determined to wrench the tiny island from the sea. As we clambered up the exposed slopes of Beinn Tuiridh, the wind seemed to have doubled its intensity. And the temperature had plummeted. The icy rain had turned to hail, white stones that bounced and skidded underfoot, beating down on my hood like gravel.

We’d left the car on the road as close to the foot of the mountain as we could get, and started up. It was still light, but visibility was poor and the afternoon was already passing. There was another hour, two at most, before the first dimming of twilight. And once darkness fell, then being out here could very quickly go from being dangerous to fatal.

Despite the exertion, my hands, feet and face were numb. The cold made my injured shoulder burn with a dull, strength-sapping ache. To make matters worse, we’d only a vague idea of where the cairns were. It had been night when I’d blindly stumbled up here, following the glow from Strachan’s fire, and I’d been delirious with exhaustion and pain. In daylight, the mountainside was a bewildering jumble of boulders and gullies. Its rock-strewn slopes were covered with formations that could be either natural or man-made.

‘Never been up here before,’ Brody panted. ‘But I don’t think the cairns are very far. Shouldn’t take us too long. If we head straight up we’re bound to come to them.’

I wasn’t so sure. The slope was treacherous with loose stone and scree, and there was nothing resembling any sort of path. We were forced to make our own route, often finding ourselves faced with rocks that had to be either scrambled over or bypassed. If he’d managed to carry me down here single-handed at night, Strachan was obviously stronger than he looked.

And more dangerous.

We were walking directly into the wind, bent almost double by the effort. We’d started out close together, but as the steep gradient took its toll we’d become strung out. Brody forged on resolutely, but with my balance impaired by my strapped arm I was finding the going harder. Not as hard as Fraser, though. Overweight and unfit, the police sergeant was wheezing for breath and falling further behind with every step.

I was considering calling for a rest when there was a clatter from behind me. Looking back I saw that Fraser had fallen. Loose rocks formed a mini-avalanche around him as he slid backwards on his hands and knees. He stayed on them, gulping air through his open mouth, too exhausted to get up.

Ahead of us, Brody was carrying on unaware. ‘Brody! Wait!’ I called, the wind throwing my words back at me.

I hurried back down to Fraser. I got my hand under his arm, and tried to pull him to his feet. He was a solid, dead weight.

‘Give me a minute…’ he gasped.

But I could see that a minute, or even longer, wasn’t going to make any difference. There was no way he could go any further. I looked up for Brody again and saw him almost lost in the hail. Then a sudden gust peppered my eyes with shards of ice, making me avert my face.

‘Can you make it back to the car?’ I asked, putting my mouth close to his ear so he could hear me over the wind.

He nodded, chest heaving.

‘You sure?’

He waved me on irritably. I left him to it and hurried after Brody. I couldn’t see him at all now. My breathing became ragged as I tried to catch up. I kept my head down, staring at the ground directly in front of me, partly to protect my face from the wind’s bite, but mainly because I was too tired to do anything else. Whenever I looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of Brody, the hail obscured the slope ahead like static on a TV screen.

A stone skidded from under my foot, sending me down on to one knee. I sucked in air, not sure how much further I could go.

‘Brody!’ I shouted, but the only answer was the shriek of the gale.

I clambered to my feet again. It was too exposed to stay where I was. I had to decide whether to carry on or follow Fraser back down, and as I stood there I realized that the tumbles of rock nearby were oddly symmetrical. I’d been so focused on catching up with Brody that I’d not taken notice of the surrounding landscape until now.

I was standing amongst the burial cairns.

But there was no sign of Brody. I told myself that he couldn’t have missed them, that he wouldn’t have gone straight past, even though that was what I’d almost done myself. As I looked round for him an eddy in the wind created a gap in the swirling hail, like a curtain being drawn back. It only lasted for a moment, but while it did I saw a larger stone structure further off along the slope.