Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

My boots skidded on the hail-covered slope, carving ruts in the sodden turf as I went to take a closer look. The structure was like a round stone hut, partially caved in. Just outside it was the remains of a campfire. The ashes were cold, already half covered with hail, but looking at them I saw the flames leaping up, and remembered the hooded figure emerging into the firelight the night I’d been lost. Strachan’s words came back to me. The broch’s a good place to think…I love the idea that someone would have been sitting up there by a fire two thousand years ago. I like to think I’m keeping the tradition…

I looked around, not really expecting to see either Fraser or Brody, but hoping all the same. But I might have been the only living soul on the mountainside.

Bracing myself against the wind, I edged closer to the hut. The entrance yawned in front of me. I peered into it, trying to sense if anyone was inside. All I saw was blackness. Just do it. Crouching down, I ducked through the low opening.

Silence draped around me like a blanket as the wind was cut off. It was pitch black, the air heavy with loam and age. It was cramped inside, barely high enough to allow me to stand. But no one jumped out at me. As my eyes acclimatised, I made out cold stone walls and bare soil underfoot. Whatever this was, it looked as though it had stood empty and unused for millennia.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a small, pale blur. I bent down to examine it. Some of the stones had tumbled from the inner wall, forming a small hollow. Inside was a half-melted candle stub, surrounded by dirty yellow pools of solidified wax from countless predecessors.

I’d found Strachan’s hide. But where was Strachan?

I straightened, and as I did the grey light coming from the entrance suddenly dimmed. I spun round, heart banging, as a shape rose from the shadows behind me.

‘Hello, David,’ Strachan said.

I DIDN’T SPEAK. My mind still seemed stalled, robbing me of any speech or movement. Strachan took another step away from the wall, so he was silhouetted in the entrance.

He held a knife down by his side, its blade catching the light from behind him.

‘Managed to find your way up here again, eh? Told you you’d find it interesting.’

His voice echoed flatly in the confines of the broch. He didn’t come any closer, but he was between me and the only way out. I tried not to look at the knife. Our breath steamed in the small chamber. His eyes looked hunted and sunken, the dark stubble blue-black against the pallor of his face.

He tilted his head, listening to the wind howling outside.

‘Do you know what “Beinn Tuiridh” means? It’s Gaelic for “Moaning Mountain”. Pretty apt, I always thought.’

His tone was conversational, as though he’d come here for a stroll. He ran his hand across the stone wall. The other, holding the knife, remained at his side.

‘This place isn’t as old as the cairns. Probably only a thousand years or so. You get brochs like this all across the islands. I’ve never been able to make up my mind if it was built here because of the cairns or in spite of them. Why build a watchtower in a graveyard? Unless they were watching over the dead, I suppose. What do you think?’

When I didn’t answer he gave a small smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose you’re here out of archaeological interest, are you?’

I found my voice. ‘Maggie Cassidy’s dead.’

He was still studying the hard stones. ‘I know.’

‘Did you kill her?’

Strachan stood poised for a moment with his hand on the wall. He dropped it with a sigh.

‘Yes.’

‘And Duncan? And Janice Donaldson?’

There was no surprise at hearing the prostitute’s name. He just nodded, and any last doubt I might have had vanished.

‘Why?’

‘Does it matter? They’re dead. You can’t bring them back.’

He seemed shrunken. I’d expected to hate him, but I felt more confused than anything.

‘You must have had a reason!’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

I tried to see any sign of madness in his eyes. They just looked tired. And sad.

‘Did Janice Donaldson blackmail you, was that it? Was she threatening to tell Grace?’

‘Leave Grace out of this,’ he warned, his voice grown suddenly hard.

‘Then tell me.’

‘All right, she was blackmailing me. I’d been fucking her, and when she realized who I was she got greedy. So I killed her.’ He sounded listless, as though none of this had any real bearing on him.

‘And what about Duncan and Maggie?’

‘They got in the way.’

‘That’s it? You killed them just for that?’

‘Yes, that’s it! I butchered them all like pigs, and I got a thrill out of it! Because I’m a sick, twisted bastard! Is that what you wanted to hear?’

His voice was thick with self-contempt. I tried to keep mine steady. ‘So now what?’

As we’d been talking, I’d been trying to slowly work my injured arm out of the sling under my coat. Even if I managed it I didn’t give much for my chances if he attacked me, but I’d have none at all if I was one-handed.

He was backlit by the light from the entrance, half in shadow as he answered. ‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t make this any worse for yourself than it is already,’ I said, with a confidence I didn’t feel. ‘Think about Grace.’

He took a step towards me. ‘I told you to leave her out of this!’

I made myself stay where I was, resisting the impulse to back away. ‘Why? You attacked her! Your own wife!’

There was real pain in his eyes. ‘She took me by surprise. I was in the house when the three of you called round. I guessed why you’d come, and I knew you’d be back. I only wanted to stop you using the yacht’s radio, to give myself more time to think. But the bloody dog knew I was down there, and when I heard Grace coming into the cockpit, I…I just spun round and backhanded her. I didn’t mean to hit her so hard, but I couldn’t let her see it was me!’

‘So then you staged everything? Put her through all that?’

‘I did what I had to do!’

But he sounded shamed. I pushed on, sensing an advantage.

‘You’re not going to get off the island, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Probably not.’ He had an odd smile on his face. Seeing it, I felt suddenly cold. ‘But I’m not going to give myself up, either.’

He lifted the knife. Its blade glinted silver as he held it up, considering it.

‘Do you want to know why I came up here?’ he began, but I never heard his reason.

Suddenly a bulky shape flew into him from behind. There was a clatter as Strachan’s knife flew from his hand, and then I was knocked against the wall. Pain burst in my shoulder as the stones shuddered under the impact. Everything was shadow and confusion as Strachan and another figure struggled on the floor. In the half-light I made out the granite features of Brody. Strachan was younger and fitter, but the older man had size on his side. Using his weight to pin him, he smashed his fist into Strachan’s face. There was a meat and bone impact, then another as Brody hit him again. Strachan went limp even before Brody hit him a third time. I thought he’d stop, but he didn’t. He carried on, putting all his weight into the blows.

‘Brody!’

It was as though he hadn’t heard. Strachan was no longer resisting, and as Brody drew back his fist once more I caught hold of his arm.

‘You’ll kill him!’

He shrugged me off. In the light from the entrance I could see the grim intent in his face and knew he was beyond reasoning. I pushed myself off the wall, driving into him and using my impetus to knock him off the unmoving Strachan.