Written in Bone (5 page)

It was a conflict I had no idea how to resolve. My work was as much a part of me as breathing, but I couldn’t imagine losing Jenny. Yet I was beginning to think that before much longer I’d have to choose between them.

The phone rang for a while before she answered. ‘Hi, it’s me,’ I said.

‘Hi.’ There was a strained pause. ‘So. How are the Outer Hebrides?’

‘Cold and wet. How was your day?’

‘Fine.’

Jenny was a teacher. Positions were hard to come by in London, but she’d found a part-time post at a nursery school which she enjoyed. She was good at her job, and good with children. I knew she wanted her own some day. That was something else I wasn’t sure about.

I couldn’t bear the stilted awkwardness between us. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about earlier.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No, it does. I just wanted to explain—’

‘Don’t. Please,’ she added, less forcefully. ‘There’s no point. You’re there now. I was just disappointed you wouldn’t be coming back today.’

‘It’ll only be another day or two,’ I said, aware it was a feeble olive branch.

‘OK.’

The silence stretched on. ‘I’d better go,’ I said after a while. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow night.’

I heard her sigh. ‘David…’

My stomach knotted. ‘What?’

There was a pause.

‘Nothing. I’m just looking forward to seeing you, that’s all.’

I told her the same and reluctantly broke the connection. After I’d hung up I stayed on the bed, wondering what it was she’d been about to say. Whatever it was, I was far from sure I wanted to hear it.

Sighing, I connected my camera to the laptop and downloaded the photographs from the cottage. There were over a hundred shots of the remains, capturing them from every angle. I quickly browsed through them, making sure there was nothing I’d overlooked. Bleached by the flash, the sight of the surviving hand and feet had lost none of its ability to shock. I spent longer studying the images of the broken skull. It looked like countless others I’d seen in the aftermath of fire. An almost textbook-perfect case of a cranial blow-out.

So why did I feel I was missing something?

I stared at the screen so long my eyes began to hurt, without finding anything that rang any alarm bells. Finally, I accepted I wasn’t going to.
Wallace is probably right. You’re just being over-cautious.

I backed up the files on to a USB memory stick, then connected the laptop to the hotel’s Internet server so I could check my emails. The missing persons files I’d asked Wallace to send hadn’t arrived, so I replied to the messages that were most urgent, then lay on the bed and closed my eyes. I could easily have fallen asleep if my stomach hadn’t rumbled noisily to remind me that, tired or not, I needed to eat.

I pushed myself off the bed and headed for the door. As I passed the window, I idly glanced out. My own reflection stared back at me from the dark, rain-flecked glass, but for a second I thought I’d glimpsed something—someone—outside.

I went over and looked out. A lonely street lamp stood in the street below, a bright yellow smudge in the darkness. But except for that the night was empty.

Trick of the light
, I told myself. Switching off the bedroom light, I went downstairs.

CHAPTER 5

THE BAR WAS
little more than a snug into which a few tables had been squeezed. Like the hallway, it was clad in pine panels, so that the overall impression was of being inside a giant wooden box. Set against one wall was a fireplace made entirely of seashells. A peat block burned in its hearth, filling the air with a rich, spicy scent.

There were fewer than a dozen customers, but it was enough to make the place feel busy without being overcrowded. The voices were a curious blend of lilting Scots and the harsher consonants of Gaelic. I received a few curious looks as I went in. Word had obviously spread about what had been found at the old crofter’s cottage, no doubt thanks to Maggie Cassidy. But after the initial glances everyone went back to what they were doing. Two old men were playing dominoes by the window, the clack of the black rectangles a staccato counterpoint to the chink of glasses. Kinross, the bearded ferry captain, was talking at the bar to a huge man with a ponderous gut. A blowsy woman in her forties was with them, her raucous laugh and smoker’s voice carrying above the barroom hubbub.

All the tables were occupied. There was no sign of Fraser, so I guessed he had gone to take Duncan’s supper out to the camper van. I hesitated, feeling the usual stranger’s exclusion at walking into a closed gathering.

‘Dr Hunter.’ Brody was sitting at a table by the fire, hand raised to attract my attention. The old border collie was curled asleep on the floor at his feet. ‘Won’t you join me?’

‘Thanks.’ I was glad to see a familiar face. I went over, easing my way past the domino players.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ He had a mug of tea on the table in front of him. I still hadn’t eaten, but a drink would be welcome.

‘A whisky, thanks.’

He went to the bar as I took the chair opposite him. Kinross gave him a nod as he made room. Cautiously respectful rather than friendly. There was no one serving, so Brody simply poured a measure of whisky into a glass, then chalked it up on a slate hanging by the bar.

‘Here you go. Fifteen-year-old Islay malt,’ he said, setting the glass in front of me with a small jug of water.

I looked at his tea. ‘You don’t drink yourself?’

‘Not any more.’ He raised his mug. ‘
Slàinte.
’

I added a little water to the malt. ‘Cheers.’

‘So did you get much done after I’d left?’ he asked, then smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t ask. Old habits and all that.’

‘Not much to tell yet, anyway.’

He nodded and changed the subject. ‘How are they settling into the camper?’

‘All right, I think. At least, Duncan is.’

Brody smiled. ‘Drew the short straw, did he? Ah well, he’ll stay in worse places before he’s finished. That van stood me in good stead when I first retired. Not seen much use since I came out here, though.’

‘Duncan was saying you used to work with his father.’

His smile grew reflective. ‘Aye. Small world, eh? We served in the Territorial Army together when we were both green PCs. Last time I saw Sandy his lad was still at school.’ He shook his head. ‘Where’s the time go, eh? One minute you’re chasing crooks and thinking about promotion, the next…’

He broke off, brightening as Ellen came over. ‘Can I get you something to eat, Dr Hunter?’ she asked.

‘That sounds good. And it’s David.’

‘David,’ she corrected herself, smiling. ‘I hope Andrew here’s not bothering you. You know what these ex-policemen are like.’

Brody wagged a finger, mock-stern. ‘Careful, that’s slander.’

‘Would a slice of home-made apple pie make amends?’

He patted his stomach, regretfully. ‘Tempting, but I’d better not.’

‘The sky won’t fall if you treat yourself for once.’

‘You can never be too careful.’

Ellen laughed. ‘Aye, I’ll remember that next time you sneak sweets to Anna.’

The big man who was with Kinross suddenly raised his voice. ‘Another couple of drams here, Ellen.’

‘In a minute, Sean.’

‘Shall we help ourselves, then? We’re dying of thirst.’

It was the woman at the bar who’d spoken. She was drunk, a condition I guessed from the look of her wasn’t unusual. A few years ago she might have been attractive, but now her features were puffy and etched with bitterness.

‘The last time you helped yourself, Karen, you forgot to chalk it up,’ Ellen retorted. There was steel in her voice. ‘I’m having a conversation. I’m sure you can survive for a few more minutes.’

She turned back to us, and so missed the anger that clouded the woman’s face. ‘Sorry about that. A few drinks and some people forget their manners. Now, I was asking you what you wanted to eat. There’s mutton stew, or I can make you a sandwich if you’d rather.’

‘Mutton stew sounds good. But I don’t mind if you serve them first.’

‘They can wait. It’ll do them good.’

‘Ellen…’ Brody said, quietly.

She sighed, then gave him a tired smile. ‘Aye, all right. I know.’

He watched her go to the bar to serve them. ‘Ellen can be a little…fiery,’ he said, but with affection. ‘Causes friction sometimes, but the hotel’s the only watering hole on Runa, so everyone either abides by her rules or stays home. She’s a good cook, too. Did a college course on the mainland. I eat here most nights.’

Even if Fraser hadn’t mentioned on the ferry that Brody was estranged from his wife and daughter, I would have guessed that he lived on his own. There was something intrinsically solitary about him.

‘Does she run this place by herself?’

‘Aye. Not easy, but between the bar takings and the occasional guest, she manages.’

‘What happened to her husband?’

His face closed down. ‘There wasn’t one. Anna’s father was someone she met on the mainland. She doesn’t talk about it.’

The way he said it made it clear that he wasn’t going to either. He cleared his throat and nodded towards the group at the bar.

‘Anyway, let me tell you about some of Runa’s local colour. Kinross you’ll have met on the boat. Surly bugger, but he’s had it rough. Wife died a couple of years ago, so now there’s just him and his teenage lad. The loudmouth with the beer belly is Sean Guthrie. Used to be a fisherman but lost his boat to the bank. He’s got an old one he’s trying to patch up, but he scrapes a living now doing odd jobs, and helping Kinross run the ferry sometimes. Harmless enough mostly, but keep clear of him when he’s had too many.’

He was interrupted by a raucous laugh from the woman.

‘That’s Karen Tait. Runs the general store, when she’s sober and can be bothered. Got a sixteen-year-old daughter, Mary, who…well, she isn’t what she should be. You’d think Karen would be at home with her, but she’d rather prop up the bar in here every night.’

His expression made it clear what he thought of that.

A blast of cold air swept into the bar as the outside door was opened. A moment later a golden retriever burst into the bar in a scrabble of claws.

‘Oscar!
Oscar!
’

A man came in after it. I’d have put him a year or two either side of forty, with the chiselled good looks of a latter-day Byron. His weatherproof coat was black and obviously expensive. Like its wearer, it looked out of place amongst the scuffed coats and oilskins favoured by the other islanders.

His entrance had silenced everyone in the room. Even the domino players had halted their game. The man casually snapped his fingers at the dog. It trotted back to him, wagging its tail.

‘Sorry about that, Ellen,’ he said with an easy confidence, the clipped vowels of South Africa evident in his voice. ‘He shot straight in as soon as I opened the door.’

Ellen looked unimpressed with both the newcomer and his apology. ‘You should keep hold of him, then. This is a hotel, not a kennel.’

‘I know. It won’t happen again.’

He looked contrite, but as she turned away and walked out I saw him flash a quick smile and wink at the drinkers at the bar. There were grins in reply. Whoever the newcomer was, he was popular.

‘Evening, everyone. It’s a raw one out there tonight,’ he said, shrugging out of his coat.

There was a chorus of ‘
Feasgar Math
’ and ‘aye’s. I had the impression he could have said it was a beautiful evening and they would just as readily have agreed with him. But the newcomer either didn’t notice their deference, or accepted it as his due.

‘Will you take a drink, Mr Strachan?’ Kinross asked, with an awkward formality.

‘No, thank you, Iain. But I’ll gladly buy a round myself. Help yourselves, and mark it up on my tab.’ He gave the woman at the bar a smile that made his eyes crinkle. ‘Hello, Karen. I’ve not seen you for a while. Are you and Mary keeping well?’

She was more susceptible to his charm than Ellen had been. Her blush was visible even from where I sat.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, pleased to be singled out.

Only now did the newcomer turn towards where Brody and I were sitting. ‘Evening, Andrew.’

Brody gave a stiff nod in return. His expression was hard as granite. He shifted his legs to put them between his border collie bitch and the golden retriever, which was sniffing around her.

The newcomer swatted the retriever with his gloves. ‘Leave her alone, Oscar, you hound.’

The dog came away, wagging its tail. Its owner gave me a grin. For all his self-assurance, there was something engaging about him.

‘And you must be one of the visitors I’ve been hearing about. I’m Michael Strachan.’

I’d already guessed this must be who Fraser had told me about on the way back from the cottage: Runa’s unofficial laird, and the owner of the big house. He was younger than I’d expected, somehow.

‘David Hunter,’ I said, shaking the offered hand. He had a dry, strong grip.

‘Can I buy you both a drink as well?’ he offered.

‘Not for me, thanks,’ I said.

Brody rose to his feet, his expression stony. He towered nearly a half-head over Strachan.

‘I was just leaving. Nice seeing you again, Dr Hunter. Come on, Bess.’

The dog obediently trotted out after him. Strachan watched him go, mouth curved in a faint smile, before turning back to me. ‘Mind if I join you?’

He was already sliding into Brody’s seat, casually tossing his gloves on to the table. In his black jeans and charcoal-grey sweater, sleeves pushed back to reveal tanned forearms and a Swiss Army watch, he looked as though he’d be more at home in Soho than the Outer Hebrides.

The golden retriever flopped down beside him, as near to the crackling fire as it could get. Strachan reached down and scratched its ears, looking every bit as relaxed himself.

‘Are you a friend of Andrew Brody’s?’ he asked.

‘We only met today.’

He grinned. ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t approve of me, as you probably noticed. I’m sure he was a good policeman, but God, the man’s dour!’

I didn’t say anything. I’d been quite impressed by Brody so far. Strachan slouched easily in his chair, casually resting one foot on his knee.

‘I gather you’re a…what is it? A forensic anthropologist?’ He smiled at my surprise. ‘You’ll find it’s hard to keep anything a secret on Runa. Especially when we’ve got a reporter whose grandmother lives on the island.’

I thought back to how Maggie Cassidy had come over to talk to me on the ferry. Stumbling against me, pretending to be a novelist as she’d pumped me for information.

And I’d fallen for it.

‘Don’t feel too bad,’ Strachan said, interpreting my expression. ‘It isn’t often we get this sort of excitement. Not that we want it, obviously. The last time a body was found here was when an old crofter tried to walk home in the dark after a few malts too many. Got lost and died of exposure. But this doesn’t sound anything like that.’

He paused, giving me a chance to comment. When I didn’t he went on anyway.

‘What was it, some kind of accident?’

‘Sorry, I can’t really say.’

Strachan gave an apologetic smile. ‘No, of course. You’ll have to excuse my curiosity. It’s just that I’ve got what you might call a vested interest in this place. I’m responsible for a lot of redevelopment here. It’s brought more people to the island than we’re used to—contractors and so on. I’d hate to think I’d imported big-town troubles as well.’

He seemed genuinely concerned, but I wasn’t going to let myself be drawn. ‘You don’t sound like a local,’ I said.

He grinned. ‘The accent’s a bit of a giveaway, eh? My family’s Scottish originally, but I grew up near Johannesburg. My wife and I moved to Runa about five years ago.’

‘It’s a long way from South Africa.’

Strachan tousled his dog’s ears. ‘I suppose it is. But we’d been travelling round a lot, so it was time to put down roots. I liked the remoteness of this place. Reminded me in some ways of where I grew up. Place was pretty depressed back then, of course. No local economy to speak of, population in decline. Another few years and it could have been another St Kilda.’

I’d heard of St Kilda, another Hebridean island that had been abandoned in the 1930s, and lain unoccupied ever since. Now it was a ghost-island, tenanted only by seabirds and researchers.

‘You seem to have helped turn it round,’ I said.

He looked embarrassed. ‘We’ve still got some way to go. And I don’t want to make out it’s all down to me. But Runa’s our home now. Grace, my wife, helps out at the school, and we do what we can in other ways as well. That’s why I worry when I hear about something like this happening. Hello, what’s up, Oscar?’

The golden retriever was looking expectantly at the doorway. I hadn’t heard anyone come into the hotel, but a moment later there was the sound of the front door opening. The dog gave an excited whine, its tail thumping against the floor.

‘I don’t know how he does that, but he always knows,’ Strachan said, shaking his head.

Knows what? I wondered, and then a woman came into the bar. I didn’t need to be told to know that she was Strachan’s wife. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, although she was certainly that. Her white Prada parka was flecked with rain, setting off thick, shoulder-length hair that was raven black. It framed a face whose skin was flawless, with a full mouth it was hard to take your eyes from.