Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

Even in death Strachan hadn’t been able to escape his sister.

Ironically, for the moment at least, Runa itself still seemed to be prospering. Far from becoming another St Kilda, the publicity it received had brought an influx of journalists, archaeologists and naturalists, as well as tourists drawn by its new-found notoriety. How long it would last remained to be seen, but Kinross’s ferry was suddenly very much in demand. There was even talk of building another hotel, although it wouldn’t be Ellen McLeod who was running it.

I’d met Ellen again at the inquest into Brody’s suicide. She carried herself with the same steel-tempered dignity I remembered, but while there were still shadows in her eyes, there was also a new optimism. She and Anna had moved to Edinburgh, living in a small house paid for by the hotel’s insurance. Both Strachan and Brody had left them well cared for in their wills, but Ellen put everything they left her into a fund to help rebuild the island. It was blood money, she’d said, with a flash of her old fierceness. She wanted nothing to do with it.

But there was one thing they had brought with them from Runa: Brody’s border collie. It had been either that or let her be destroyed, and, as Ellen said, it wouldn’t have seemed right to punish the old dog for the crimes of its owner.

I thought Brody would have been grateful for that.

As for me, it was surprising how quickly life slid back to normal. There were still days when I’d wonder how many people would still be alive if I’d never gone to Runa, if Janice Donaldson’s murder had been dismissed as an accident. Oh, I knew that Brody’s poisoned obsession with Strachan would have driven him to try again, and that Grace’s madness would have resurfaced eventually. But the butcher’s bill still weighed heavily on my conscience.

One night as I lay awake thinking about it, Jenny had woken and asked what was wrong. I wanted to tell her, wanted to exorcise the ghosts that had followed me back from the island. Yet somehow I couldn’t.

‘Nothing.’ I’d smiled to reassure her. Knowing as I did that it was the small lies that eroded a relationship. ‘I just can’t sleep.’

Things had been tense enough between us anyway after my return. What had happened on Runa had only served to reinforce her dislike of my profession. I knew she thought it was too much of a link to the past, that it tied me to my own dead in a way she mistrusted. In that she was wrong-it was because of what had happened to my family that I’d once tried to give up my work. But Jenny remained unconvinced.

‘You’re a qualified GP, David,’ she said, during one of our not-quite-arguments. ‘You could find a job in any number of practices. I wouldn’t care where it was.’

‘And what if that’s not what I want to do?’

‘It used to be! And it’d be about life, not death!’

I couldn’t make her understand that, as I saw it, my work was already about life. About how people had lost it, and who had taken it away. And how I might help keep them from taking anyone else’s.

But as the weeks passed, the friction between us eased. Summer came, bringing hot days and balmy nights, making the events on Runa seem more distant than ever. The questions about our future still remained, but they were shelved by mutual, if unspoken, consent. Yet the tension was still there, not yet gathering into a storm, but never far below the horizon either. I’d been invited for a month-long research trip to the Outdoor Anthropology Research Facility in Tennessee, the so-called Body Farm where I’d learned much of my trade. It wasn’t until autumn, but so far I’d put off making a decision. It wasn’t just my being away that would be a problem, although Jenny wouldn’t like it. It was the statement of intent that making the trip would represent. My work was a part of me, but so was Jenny. I’d almost lost her once. I couldn’t bear losing her again.

Even so, I continued to stall, putting off the moment when I would have to decide.

Then, late one Saturday afternoon, the past caught up with us.

We were at my ground-floor flat rather than Jenny’s, because it had a small terrace at the back, big enough for a table and chairs during summer. It was a warm, sunny evening, and we’d invited friends round for a barbecue. They weren’t due to arrive for another half-hour, but I’d already started the fire. Cold beers in hand and the scent of charcoal in the air, we were enjoying the weekend. Barbecues had good associations for us, a reminder of when we’d first met. Jenny had brought out bowls of salad, and was feeding me an olive when the phone rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ she said, when I started to put down the tongs and spatula. ‘You’re not getting off cooking that easily.’

Smiling, I watched her go inside. She’d grown her blond hair longer recently, long enough to tie back. It suited her. Contentedly, I took a drink of beer and turned my attention back to the charcoal bricks. I was squirting lighter fuel on to them when Jenny came back out.

‘Some young woman for you,’ she said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Said her name was Rebecca Brody.’

I stared at her.

I’d never told Jenny what Brody’s daughter was called. I knew she wouldn’t want to know such details, and hearing the name from her, now, after all these months, left me speechless.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jenny asked, looking worried.

‘What else did she say?’

‘Not much. She just wanted to know if you were in, and said she’d like to call round. I probably didn’t sound very enthusiastic, but she said it would only take a few minutes. Look, are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I gave an uncertain laugh. ‘Funny you should say that.’

Jenny’s face fell when I told her who the caller was.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said when I’d finished. ‘I thought she was dead. God knows what she wants. Or how she found out where I live.’

Jenny was silent for a moment, then gave a resigned sigh. ‘Don’t worry, it isn’t your fault. I’m sure she’s got a good reason.’

The door buzzer sounded from the hallway. I hesitated, looking at Jenny. She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed me.

‘Go on. I’ll leave you in peace while you talk to her. And you can ask her to stay for something to eat, if you like.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, kissing her before going inside.

I was glad Jenny had taken it so well, but I wasn’t sure I wanted Brody’s daughter as a guest. I couldn’t deny I was curious, but I felt oddly nervous at the prospect of coming face to face with her. Her father had died believing she was dead.

And five other people had died because of it.

But she could hardly be blamed for that, I reminded myself. Give her a chance. At least she’d made the effort to come and see me. She wouldn’t be doing that unless she felt some responsibility for what had happened.

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

A red-haired young woman stood on the doorstep. She was slim and tanned, a pair of dark sunglasses perched on her face. But neither they, nor the unflattering loose dress she wore, could hide the fact that she was startlingly attractive.

‘Hi,’ I said, smiling.

There was something familiar about her. I was trying to place it, looking for something of Brody in her without being able to find it. Then I smelt the musky scent she was wearing and the smile froze on my face.

‘Hello, Dr Hunter,’ Grace Strachan said.

Everything suddenly seemed both slowed down and pin-prick sharp. There was time to think, uselessly, that the yacht hadn’t slipped its chain after all, and then Grace’s hand was emerging from her shoulder bag with the knife.

The sight of it freed me from my shock. I started to react as she lunged at me, but it was always going to be too late. I grabbed at the blade, but it slid through my hand, slicing my palm and fingers to the bone. The pain of that hadn’t even had time to register when the knife went into my stomach.