But at the moment the pupils were all gathered round a large table at the back, busying themselves with pots of paint, brushes and water. There were about a dozen in all, their ages ranging from about four to nine or ten. I recognised Anna amongst them. She smiled shyly when she saw me, then returned to arranging a sheet of paper exactly to her liking.
Grace had already taken off her coat and was busy organizing her class. ‘I hope we’re not going to have another water-spilling crisis this week, are we? And yes, I’m looking at you, Adam.’
‘No, Mrs Strachan,’ a young boy with a shock of ginger hair said, smiling bashfully.
‘Good. Because if anyone misbehaves, I’m afraid they’ll have to have their face painted. And we wouldn’t want to have to explain that to your parents, would we?’
There were delighted giggles, a chorus of ‘No, Mrs Strachan.’ Grace looked animated and alive, even more beautiful than usual. Cheeks flushed, she turned to us with a smile, motioning with her head to a door at the far side.
‘Go on through. I’ve told Bruce you wanted a word.’
She turned back to the children as we crossed the room, already forgetting about us. The office door was closed, and when I knocked on it there was no answer. I began to wonder if Cameron had slipped out until his bass voice peremptorily drawled a command.
‘Come.’
Glancing at Brody, I opened the door and went in. A desk and filing cabinet took up most of the room. Cameron was standing with his back to us, staring out of the window. I wondered if he’d done it for effect, knowing he was backlit. He turned and favoured us with an unfriendly look.
‘Yes?’
I reminded myself this would be easier if we had his cooperation. ‘We need to use the medical clinic. The storm brought down the cottage roof, and we need somewhere to store what we salvaged.’
The bulbous eyes considered us, coldly. ‘You mean you want to keep human remains in there?’
‘Only until they can be taken to the mainland.’
‘And in the meantime what about my patients?’
Brody spoke up. ‘Come on, Bruce. You only hold a clinic twice a week, and the next one isn’t for another two days. We should be out of the way long before then.’
Cameron wasn’t appeased. ‘So you say. But what if there’s an emergency?’
‘This is an emergency,’ Brody snapped, losing patience. ‘We’re not here from choice.’
The teacher’s Adam’s apple bobbed angrily. ‘There must be somewhere else you can take them.’
‘If you can think of anywhere feel free to tell us.’
‘And if I say no?’
Brody regarded him with exasperation. ‘Why should you do that?’
‘Because it’s a medical clinic, not a morgue! And I don’t think you have any right to commandeer it!’
I opened my mouth to object, but before I could Grace’s voice came from behind us.
‘Is there a problem?’
She stood in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked quizzically. Cameron blushed like a schoolboy caught out by his teacher.
‘I was just telling them-’
‘Yes, I heard you, Bruce. So did the rest of the class.’
Cameron’s Adam’s apple worked. ‘I’m sorry. But I don’t really think the medical clinic should be used for something like this.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well…’ Cameron was visibly squirming. He gave her an ingratiating smile. ‘I am the nurse after all, Grace. I ought to be able to decide what happens in my own clinic.’
Grace regarded him coolly. ‘Actually, Bruce, it belongs to the island. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of that.’
‘No, of course, but-’
‘So unless you can suggest somewhere else they can use, I don’t really see that there’s an alternative.’
Cameron made an effort to hold on to his tattered dignity. ‘Well…in that case, I suppose…’
‘Good. That’s settled, then.’ Grace gave him a smile. ‘Now why don’t you run over there and show them where everything is? I’ll look after things here until you get back.’
Cameron stared down at his desk as she went back to her class. The flush had gone from his face, leaving him white and tight-lipped. Grace might help him out at the school, but he’d just had a public reminder that it was her husband’s money that paid his wages. Wordlessly, he snatched his coat down from where it was hanging and walked out.
‘I’d have paid to see that,’ Brody said in a low voice, as we went after him.
The medical clinic was a short distance from the school. It was little more than a small extension tacked on to one end of the community centre, with no external door of its own. Cameron had ridden there on his mountain bike, forging against the wind. By the time we arrived he was already going into the glassed-in porch that covered the community centre’s entrance. Leaving Duncan in the car with the evidence bags, Brody and I followed him inside.
The community centre looked like a throwback to the Second World War, a long wooden structure with a low asphalt roof and panelled windows. Most of the inside was taken up by a large hall. Our footsteps echoed hollowly on its unvarnished floorboards, on which the ghostly markings of a badminton court had faded almost to invisibility. Posters advertising dances and the now-past Christmas pantomime were pinned to the walls, and old wooden chairs were stacked untidily at one side. The island’s redevelopment evidently hadn’t extended this far.
‘Strachan wanted to build a new community centre, but everyone liked this as it is,’ Brody said, guessing what I was thinking. ‘Familiarity, I suppose. People like some things to stay the same.’
Cameron had stopped by a new-looking door and was searching irritably through a jangling key ring. While we waited, I went to a scuffed upright piano that stood nearby. The lid was raised, exposing ivory keys that were cracked and yellow with age. When I pressed one a deep, broken note rang out, fading discordantly into silence.
‘Would you mind not doing that?’ Cameron said, waspishly, unlocking the door and going into the clinic.
It was only small, but well equipped, with pristine white walls and shining steel cabinets. There was an autoclave for sterilizing instruments, a well-stocked medicine cabinet and a fridge. Best of all, from my point of view, was the large stainless steel trolley and powerful halogen lamp. There was even a large magnifying lens on an adjustable stand, for examining and stitching wounds.
Cameron had gone to a desk and was making a point of checking that its drawers were locked. Brody and I watched as he did the same with the filing cabinet. That finished, he confronted us with ill-concealed dislike.
‘I expect you to leave everything exactly as you found it. I’ve no intention of cleaning up any mess you make.’
Without waiting for us to answer he started to leave.
‘We’ll need the key,’ Brody said.
Tight-lipped, Cameron unhooked one from the bunch he carried and slapped it down on the desk.
‘What about one for the community centre?’ I asked.
‘We don’t keep it locked,’ he responded primly. ‘It belongs to everyone on the island. That’s why it’s called the community centre.’
‘I’d still prefer to have a key.’
He gave a condescending smile. ‘Well, that’s too bad. Because if there is one I’ve no idea where it is.’
He seemed to take a petty satisfaction from being able to deny us that much, at least. Brody watched him go out.
‘That man is a royal pain in the arse.’
I’d been thinking along the same lines myself. ‘Come on, let’s get the evidence bags inside,’ I said.
I had an unpleasant conversation with Wallace while Brody and Duncan carried the evidence bags of bone and ashes into the clinic. Word had belatedly reached the detective superintendent that we’d been trying to contact him. Unfortunately, he’d called Fraser rather than Duncan, and the sergeant had lost no time in giving his side of events.
>
Consequently, Wallace was incandescent, demanding to know why we’d violated a crime scene without his permission. In no mood to be shouted at, I angrily pointed out that we’d had no choice, and that none of this would have happened if he’d sent SOC in the first place.
It was Brody who calmed things down, taking the radio to talk to Wallace out of earshot. When he handed it back to me, the superintendent was grudgingly apologetic. He told me to go ahead and continue my examination of the remains.
‘I suppose now you’ve got this far, you might as well see what else you can find out,’ he said, ungraciously.
The gesture was little more than an olive branch, as we both knew there was precious little I could do without a properly equipped laboratory. But I said I’d do my best. Before Wallace hung up, I asked what the situation was with the train crash. I’d not heard any news since I’d been on Runa, and I was out of touch.
The superintendent paused. ‘It was joyriders. They stalled the van on the line and then panicked and ran off.’
Not a terrorist attack after all, then. People had died, and SOC prevented from coming to Runa, all because some bored teenagers had stolen a van.
I was thinking about that as I returned to the clinic. Duncan was gingerly putting the dead woman’s hand into the fridge, holding it out at arm’s length. In the plastic of the evidence bag, it looked unsettling like a cut of meat for the freezer.
‘Still can’t get my head round how this happened,’ he said, closing the fridge door with relief. ‘How the body was burned, I mean. Just doesn’t seem natural.’
‘Oh, it was natural, right enough,’ I said, still brooding over what Wallace had said.
Both Duncan and Brody looked at me.
‘You know what caused it?’ Brody asked.
I’d known almost from the moment I set eyes on the remains. But I hadn’t wanted to commit myself until I’d been able to confirm my theory. Now, though, with the island cut off and half of the evidence buried under the cottage, there didn’t seem any reason not to tell them.
‘Pretty much,’ I said. ‘I gave you a clue the other day, Duncan, remember?’
‘The fatty stuff on the cottage ceiling, you mean? Aye, but I still haven’t been able to work it out.’
He looked embarrassed. Brody was watching me, waiting.
‘It comes down to two things. Body fat and what she was wearing,’ I explained. ‘Have either of you heard of something called the wick effect?’
They both looked blank.
‘There are two ways to reduce a human body to ash. You either incinerate it at a very high temperature, which didn’t happen here or the entire cottage would have burned down. Or you burn it at a lower temperature, for longer. We’ve all got a layer of fat just under the skin, and fat burns. Candles used to be made of tallow made from rendered animal fat before paraffin wax was used instead. So what happens is that, in certain conditions, the human body effectively becomes a giant candle.’
‘You’re joking,’ Brody said. For once the ex-policeman seemed rattled.
‘No. That’s why the residue on the ceiling and ground around the remains was significant. The fat liquefies in the heat and gets carried in the smoke. Obviously, the more body fat a person has, the more fuel there is to burn. Judging from how much was on the ceiling at the cottage, the dead woman had quite a lot.’
‘So she was overweight?’ Duncan asked.
‘I’d say so, yes.’
Brody’s forehead was furrowed. ‘I don’t see where what she was wearing comes in.’
‘Because as the fat melts, it soaks into the clothes. They act like a candle wick, letting the body burn for much longer than it would otherwise. Particularly if they’re made from a flammable fabric.’
Brody still looked shaken. ‘Christ. That’s a hell of an image.’
‘I know, but it’s what happens. Most cases of so-called spontaneous human combustion happen to people who are elderly or drunk. There’s nothing suspicious or paranormal about it. They just drop a cigarette on themselves, or brush too close to a fire and set themselves alight, and are either asleep or incapable of putting out the flames. Like Mary Reeser,’ I said to Duncan. ‘She’s the classic case that’s always cited as being “inexplicable”. But she was elderly, overweight, and a smoker. According to the police report, the last person to see her was her son. She’d just taken sleeping tablets, and was sitting in the armchair in her nightgown-both of which would have acted as wicks-smoking a cigarette.’
Duncan pondered that for a moment. ‘Aye, but why wasn’t anything else damaged by the fire? And why didn’t all the body burn up?’
‘Because even when there’s a lot of body fat to act as fuel, human tissue doesn’t burn particularly hotly. You get a slow-burning fire that’s intense enough to consume the body, but not ignite anything else. Again, think of a candle-it melts as the wick burns, but doesn’t damage whatever’s nearby. As for why the hands and feet sometimes survive…’
I held out my hand, pulling back my sleeve to expose my wrist.
‘They’re mainly skin and bone. There’s hardly any fat on them. And they’re generally not covered by fabric like the torso, so there’s nothing to act as a wick. Hands sometimes get burned just because they’re near the body, unless the arms are outflung. But the feet and sometimes the shins are often far enough removed from the fire to survive. Like they were here. She was lying on one hand, so it got burned along with the rest. But the other hand, and her feet, survived.’
Brody rubbed his chin thoughtfully, hand rasping on the whiskers that were already showing through. ‘You think this “wick effect” was intentional? That somebody did it deliberately?’
‘I doubt it. It’s not something you can easily stage. I’ve never even heard of it happening in a murder before. All the recorded incidents have been with accidental deaths, which was another reason I was slow to chalk this one up as suspicious. No, I think whoever did this probably just wanted to destroy any incriminating evidence they might have left on the body. I’d guess he used a small amount of petrol or some other accelerant to start the fire-not much or the ceiling in the cottage would have been more scorched than it was-then dropped a match on to the body and got out.’
The furrows on Brody’s forehead had deepened. ‘Why didn’t the killer torch the entire cottage?’
‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps he was worried that might attract too much attention. Or he hoped it would look more like an accident this way.’
They were silent as they considered that. Finally Duncan spoke.
‘Was she dead?’
I’d spent time wondering about that myself. There had been no sign that the woman had moved around after she was set on fire, no evidence of her trying to put out the flames. The blow that had cracked her skull would at the very least have left her unconscious, and perhaps even comatose. But dead?
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
The walls of the clinic shook under the gale’s onslaught. Somehow the sound seemed only to heighten the silence after they’d gone. I pulled on one of my last remaining pairs of surgical gloves. There was an almost full box of them in one of the cupboards, but I didn’t want to use them unless I had to. Cameron was tetchy enough without my helping myself to his supplies.
There wasn’t much I could do without proper facilities, but now that Wallace had given me permission to examine the remains we’d salvaged there was one thing I wanted to try.
Brody had put his finger on it when he’d said the inquiry was hamstrung until the victim had been identified. Once we knew who she was, it might throw light on who had killed her. Without that information, trying to find her killer would be like groping in the dark.
I hoped I might be able to do something about that.
Taking the skull from its evidence bag, I gently set it on the stainless steel trolley. Blackened and cracked, it lay canted on the cold surface. The empty eye sockets gaped blankly into eternity. I wondered what the eyes they’d onc
e held had looked on not so very long ago. A lover? A husband? A friend? How often had she laughed, unknowing, as the seconds ticked away the last days and hours of her existence? And what had she seen when that realization, finally and irrevocably, made itself known to her?
Whoever she was, I felt an odd sense of intimacy towards her. I knew almost nothing about her life, but her death had pulled me into her orbit. I had seen her history written in her charred bones, noted each year’s passing in every bump and scar. She had been laid bare in a way even those who had known her would have never recognized.
I tried to remember if I used to feel like this in the past, on the cases I’d worked before Kara and Alice had been killed. I didn’t think so. That seemed an age away now, part of a different life. A different David Hunter. Somewhere along the line, and perhaps due to my own loss, I seemed to have lost the detachment I’d once had. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but the truth was I no longer saw the dead woman as an anonymous victim. That was why she’d visited me in my dream, waited expectantly at the foot of my bed. I felt a responsibility towards her. It wasn’t something I’d anticipated, or even wanted.
But I couldn’t turn away from it.
‘OK, tell me who you are,’ I said, quietly.
CHAPTER 13
FOR A FORENSIC anthropologist, teeth are a repository of information. They’re an enduring bone interface, a bridge between the hidden skeleton and the world beyond the body. As well as revealing race and age, they form a record of an individual’s life. Our diet, habits, class, even our self-esteem, can all be gleaned from these chunks of calcium and enamel.
I took the lower jawbone from its evidence bag and laid it on the stainless steel trolley beside the broken cranium. It was as light and fragile as balsa. Under the bright halogen light, the disparate sections of the skull looked like an anatomical pastiche, far removed from anything that had once been alive.
At some point I would have to finish the job I’d tentatively started in the cottage, and piece together the shattered skull fragments I’d managed to salvage. But right now what I needed to do was try to put a face and name to the victim’s burned remains.
Written in Bone dh-2 Page 13