Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

‘She seemed to know you,’ Brody commented.

Fraser glared at him. ‘I’ll take your statement now, Mr Brody.’ The emphasis was deliberately insulting. ‘After that we’ll not be needing you any more.’

Brody set his jaw, but that was the only sign of annoyance. ‘What are you planning on using for a command post while you’re here?’

Fraser blinked suspiciously. ‘What?’

‘You can’t leave this place unattended. Not now. If one of you wants to come back to town with me, I’ve got a camper van you can use. Nothing fancy, but you’ll be hard pushed to find anything else on the island.’ His eyebrows went up. ‘Unless you were planning on staying out here all night in the car?’

The sergeant’s expression made it plain he hadn’t thought that far ahead. ‘I’ll send Duncan with you to get it,’ he said gruffly.

There was humour in Brody’s eyes as he gave me a nod. ‘Pleasure meeting you, Dr Hunter. Good luck.’

He and Fraser went out. When they’d gone, I stood in the silence of the small room, trying not to acknowledge the unease I felt now I was alone.

Don’t be stupid. I went back into the room where the remains of the dead woman lay. As I started to plan what I had to do, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle. I quickly turned round, expecting to find that Duncan or Fraser had returned.

But, except for the shadows, the room was empty.

I SAT IN the front of the Range Rover as Fraser drove back to the village, drowsy in the stifling heat from the vents and the rhythmic tick of the windscreen wipers. The headlights fastened hypnotically on the road ahead, but beyond their cone of brightness the outside world was reduced to darkness and rain-streaked glass.

I’d done as much as I could for that night. After Brody took Duncan back to town to collect the camper van, I’d used Fraser’s radio to brief Wallace while the sergeant taped off the cottage. The superintendent had sounded even more harried than he had that morning as I outlined what I knew so far.

‘So Brody wasn’t exaggerating,’ Wallace said, sounding surprised. The connection buzzed, threatening to break up.

‘No.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Look, you’re not going to like this, but you might want to think about getting SOC out here.’

‘You’re saying you think it’s murder?’ he asked, sharply.

‘No, just that I can’t say for certain it isn’t. There’s no way of knowing what might be hidden under the ashes, and I don’t want to risk contaminating a crime scene.’

‘But you’ve seen nothing so far to suggest that’s what it is?’ he pressed. ‘In fact, from what you’ve said, everything still points to the opposite.’

Except my instincts, and I knew better than to offer them as a reason. ‘That’s right, but-’

‘So sending SOC would be purely a precaution at this stage.’

I could already see what was coming. ‘If you want to put it like that, yes.’

He heard the annoyance in my tone and sighed. ‘Under normal circumstances I’d have a team out there with you first thing tomorrow. But right now this train crash takes priority. There are still people trapped, and the weather’s hampering rescue efforts. And it looks as though the van that was left on the line was stolen and left there deliberately. So as well as everything else, I’ve got to consider the possibility that this was a terrorist attack. At the moment I can’t take SOCOs off that for something that in all likelihood’s going to be an accidental death.’

‘And if it isn’t?’

‘Then I’ll get a team out to you straight away.’

There was a pause. I could understand his reasoning, but that didn’t mean I was happy about it.

‘All right. But if I find anything I don’t like then I’m backing off until SOC arrive,’ I said at last. ‘And one more thing. While I’m here I’d like to try to work on getting a tentative ID. Can you send me details from the missing persons database of any young women who fit the dead woman’s basic profile? Race, size, age, that sort of thing.’

Wallace said he’d have the missing persons files emailed to me, then ended the call without ceremony. As I hung up I told myself I’d done what I could. And he was probably right. Perhaps I was just being over-cautious.

There wasn’t much more I could do that night. The battery-powered floodlight Fraser had brought was a poor substitute for the generator-fed lamps that would normally illuminate this sort of scene, so I’d decided to wait for daylight to carry out any sort of real assessment. Putting my doubts to one side, I took my digital camera from the flight case and began photographing the remains.

There was something oppressive about the derelict cottage, with its sagging ceilings and crumbling walls. As I worked I tried to ignore the irrational unease I felt. It had nothing to do with the pitiful mound of bones and ash in the centre of the room. The dead hold no fear for me. I’ve seen death in most of its forms, and I don’t believe in ghosts. If the dead live on, it’s only in our minds and hearts.

At least, that’s where mine were.

Yet there was something unnerving about being alone out there. I put it down to tiredness and the mournful circling of the wind; the way the floodlight created dark shadows in every corner. I told myself that the biggest danger was that the remains would be compromised by the cottage’s ancient roof. The whole thing looked unsafe, and with the weather getting worse I didn’t want a sudden collapse to damage the fragile bones before I’d had a chance to examine them.

I’d just finished taking photographs when Duncan returned with Brody’s camper van. It was actually like a small Winnebago, with separate, self-contained living quarters. Inside was relatively cramped, but as scrupulously clean as the ex-inspector’s car had been.

‘You’ll be fine. Nice and cosy in here,’ Fraser told Duncan, patting the side of the van. Somehow I wasn’t surprised that it would be the young PC who would be staying here overnight. Fraser jerked his head towards the cottage. ‘If she comes out to bother you, you’ve my permission to arrest her.’

‘Aye, thanks a bunch,’ Duncan said, unhappily.

Fraser gave a wheezing chuckle. Promising to bring him out some supper, he had left Duncan trying to light the van’s paraffin heater and offered me a lift back into town. We’d been driving for about ten minutes when I saw something standing out like a lighthouse in the darkness. It was the imposing house I’d noticed on the way to the cottage, now lit up by spotlights.

‘Must be nice to have money to burn,’ Fraser commented, sourly.

‘Who lives there?’

‘Guy called Strachan. Locals think the sun shines out of his arse, by all accounts. Came here a few years ago and started chucking money around. Fixed up the roads and houses, paid for a new school and medical clinic. Absolutely loaded. Got his own yacht, and his wife’s supposed to be a stunner.’ He gave a derisive snort. ‘Some people have all the luck.’

I looked at the gaily lit windows, suspended in the darkness, and wondered briefly why life and luck should favour some, and victimize others. Then we rounded a bend in the road, and the house was lost from view.

We reached the village not long afterwards. It was spread out in the darkness ahead of us as the road dropped down towards the harbour, a smattering of bright yellow embers. Soon we were close enough to make out individual houses, their curtains drawn to shut out the winter night.

Fraser turned off the main road before it reached the harbour, cutting off back up a narrow side street. Standing by itself at the top was a tall old building on which was hung a neat sign that said Runa Hotel. It looked snug and welcoming, but after where I’d spent the afternoon anything would be an improvement.