It was immediately obvious from Maggie’s voice that something was wrong.
God, what a lousy bloody day. Seemed like a good idea, trying to get an interview with Strachan and his wife after she’d been attacked. Awful business, but they’re the most glamorous couple in the Western Isles, and this is a big story now. Thought I was being clever, dropping the soup all over the floor and batting my eyes at Strachan. Then Dr David bloody Hunter comes out with that Campbell’s crack. God, I just wanted the ground to swallow me up.
And as though that wasn’t bad enough, he tells me the young policeman’s been murdered. Duncan. What was his surname? That’s awful, I can’t remember. Some bloody journalist I am. He was really nice, helped me on the ferry with my bags. Even that night he caught me at the cottage. Doesn’t seem possible that someone on this island-Christ, someone I know!-must have killed him. I mean, what’s going on? I don’t even want to talk about it any more…
The file ended abruptly. Our breathing had misted the car windows, so that it seemed as though we were enclosed in a sea of fog. The world outside might have ceased to exist as Brody selected the next entry.
‘Two left.’
This time I thought there was something wrong with the recorder. The noise that came from its speaker was unintelligible at first, an indistinct babble of sound. It was only when I recognized Guthrie’s booming voice ordering a drink that I realized we were listening to a recording made in the bar before the meeting. Snatches of conversation came and went, then Brody’s voice came from the speaker. It sounded tinny and far away as the dictaphone struggled to pick up his speech from across the room.
We listened once more to Kinross’s vehement refusal to believe the killer was an islander, Maggie’s own question about the dead woman’s identity, and Cameron’s abortive attempt to assert himself. The recording became unintelligible again as the meeting broke up.
When it finished the tension in the steamed-up interior of the car seemed unbearable. Then Brody spoke.
‘Last one.’
This time Maggie’s voice sounded much more upbeat.
Finally, some good news! Almost missed it, too. I’d no idea the note was there, it was stuffed so far down in my coat pocket. It’d have been a real sickener if I’d not found it in time. Although why he wants to meet me at midnight, and out at Bodach Runa, I don’t know. Man’s got a sense of the dramatic, I’ll give him that. Anyone else but him, I might have second thoughts, but I dare say he just wants to wait till his wife’s asleep. Either way, no way can I pass this up. I’ve been trying hard enough for an interview, and if Michael Strachan wants to keep it private, I’m not going to argue.
There was a sudden, exuberant laugh.
Glad I didn’t break my granny’s third-best bowl for nothing after all. God, I just hope he isn’t setting me up. Be a real anticlimax if he doesn’t show…
The recording finished. The only sound was the drumming of the rain on the car roof, and the mournful bluster of wind. Wordlessly, Brody played the last section again.
…if Michael Strachan wants to keep it private, I’m not going to argue…
Fraser was the first to find his voice. ‘Jesus Christ! She went to meet Strachan?’
‘You heard her.’ Brody spoke quietly. He sat very still, as though unwilling to move.
‘But…Christ, it doesn’t make any sense! Why would Strachan kill Maggie Cassidy? And the others? What about his wife! He can’t have attacked her himself?’
‘People do anything when they’re desperate,’ Brody said. He slowly shook his head. ‘I didn’t see this coming either, but Strachan makes more sense than Kinross. We thought Janice Donaldson might have been killed because she tried to blackmail a client, and who’d make the best target? A widowed ferry captain, or a wealthy married man who’s the pillar of his community?’
‘Aye, but…why would Strachan bother with a low-rent tart like Donaldson when he’s got a wife like that?’
Brody gave a weary shrug. ‘For some men it’s the sordidness that provides the kicks. As for the rest…The more someone has to lose, the harder they’ll try to keep it.’
I didn’t want to accept it, but it made an awful sort of sense. First Janice Donaldson, then Duncan had been killed as Strachan tried to cover his tracks. And even though Maggie’s persistence in trying to interview him was innocent, to a killer who wasn’t prepared to take any chances it would have appeared in a very different light.
‘He planted the note yesterday,’ I said, slowly. ‘While I was out there. He left Grace and Maggie with me while he went to clean her coat.’
Even the stalker that Grace thought she’d seen had no doubt been engineered by Strachan, a means of distracting her so he could slip a hastily written note into Maggie’s coat pocket. A note that was now probably lost on the moorland near the Mini, scattered with the rest of the contents of Maggie’s bag. I felt shock begin to give way to anger; outrage at the extent of Strachan’s crimes. His betrayal of everyone who’d trusted him.
Including me.
The Range Rover lurched as a gust of wind savaged it. The gale seemed to have grown worse while we’d listened to Maggie’s recordings.
‘So what do we do now?’ Fraser asked.
Moving with the deliberation of a crash victim, Brody slowly opened the glove compartment and put the dictaphone inside. He closed it again, pressing the door shut with a deliberate click.
‘Try the radio.’
Fraser tried first his own, then the car’s fixed set. ‘Still dead.’
Brody nodded, as though that was only what he’d expected. ‘We can’t afford to wait for the mainland team any more. We need to bring him in. Strachan’s going to be off this island the second the weather clears. There’s not only his own yacht, there’s a dozen or so other boats he could try for. We can’t watch them all.’
‘We don’t know for sure he’ll run,’ Fraser countered, but he didn’t sound as if he believed it himself.
‘He’s killed three people, including a police officer,’ Brody said implacably. ‘Maggie wasn’t even a threat, he just thought she was. He’s losing it, getting desperate. We give him the chance, he’ll be gone. Or kill somebody else. You think Wallace will thank you if that happens?’
Fraser gave a reluctant nod. ‘Aye. Aye, you’re right.’
Brody turned to me as the police sergeant started the car. Something seemed to have gone out of him after he’d heard the recordings, but I wasn’t sure if it was the revelation about Strachan’s being the murderer, or the father of Ellen’s child.
‘What about you, David? I can’t ask you to come with us, but I’d appreciate it.’ A corner of his mouth twitched in an attempted smile. ‘We need all the help we can get.’
I wasn’t sure how much help I’d be with only one good arm, but I nodded. I’d come this far. I wasn’t going to back out now.
Strachan had hurt enough people.
Both Strachan’s Saab and Grace’s Porsche SUV were parked outside the house. Fraser pulled up behind them-blocking them both in, I noticed. The wind clubbed at us as we climbed out of the Range Rover, as though eager for violence. The temperature had dropped, threatening to freeze the rain that was being flung wildly in all directions. Brody paused by the Saab, bending to examine its tyres. He looked at me to make sure I’d seen as well.
They were thickly caked with mud.
He stood back, letting Fraser take the lead as we approached the house. It towered above us, its granite walls sheer and unforgiving. Seizing the iron knocker, the burly sergeant began pounding on the front door as if trying to break it down.
From inside we could hear the dog barking, then the door was opened. Grace looked out at us from behind a security chain. She smiled, relieved when she saw who it was.
‘Just a second.’
The door was closed again so she could slip off the chain. She opened it and stood back so we could enter.
‘Sorry about that. But after yesterday…’
> The bruising on her cheek somehow only accentuated her beauty. But I noticed there were shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there before the attack. An attack carried out by her own husband, to divert attention from himself.
I felt my outrage towards Strachan tighten into a hard knot of resolve.
‘Is your husband in?’ Fraser asked.
‘No, afraid not. Gone off on one of his jaunts again.’
‘His car’s still here.’
Grace looked startled by his brusqueness. ‘He doesn’t always take it. Why, is something wrong?’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No, I’m sorry. Look, would you mind telling me what’s going on? Why do you want to speak to Michael?’
Fraser ignored the question. The dog continued to bark madly from the kitchen, claws scrabbling on the door.
‘Do you mind if we look round the house?’
‘But I’ve already told you he isn’t here.’
‘I’d still like to see for myself.’
Her eyes flashed at his tone, and for a moment I thought she would refuse. Then she gave an angry toss of her head.
‘I don’t like being called a liar. But if you must.’
‘I’ll look in here,’ Brody told Fraser. ‘You check the outbuildings.’
Grace watched them go, still angry but also bewildered. ‘David, why are they looking for Michael? What’s wrong?’
My hesitation must have been answer enough. For the first time she looked worried.
‘This isn’t something to do with what’s been happening, is it? The murders?’
‘I can’t say. I’m sorry,’ I said, hating the fact that her world was about to be shattered.
The dog was becoming hysterical at the sound of our voices. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Oscar, be quiet!’ Grace said, impatiently opening the kitchen door and pushing the golden retriever back in. ‘Come on! Outside!’
The dog wagged its tail, oblivious to the tension as she tugged it towards the back door in the kitchen.
Brody came back downstairs. He gave a quick shake of his head.
‘Not there. Where’s Grace?’
‘Quietening the dog. She’s scared. I think she’s started to guess why we’re here.’
He sighed. ‘Strachan’s got a lot to answer for. Bad enough finding out your husband’s a murderer, let alone got a child by another woman.’ An expression of pain creased his features. ‘Christ, what the hell was Ellen thinking of…’
‘Brody,’ I said quickly, but it was too late.
Grace stood frozen in the kitchen doorway.
‘Mrs Strachan…’ Brody began.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispered. She’d gone white.
‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to hear like that.’
‘No…You’re lying! Michael wouldn’t. He wouldn’t!’
‘I’m very-’
‘Get out! Get out!’ It was more a sob than a shout.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Brody said, quietly.
I didn’t like leaving her like that, but there was nothing I could do, or say, that would make any difference to Grace. As we went outside, she was hugging herself, her perfect face now a stricken mask. Then Brody had closed the door behind us, shutting her off from sight.
‘Christ. I didn’t mean that to happen.’
‘Well, it has.’ I felt unaccountably angry. ‘Let’s find Fraser.’
I pulled my coat hood tight as we made our way towards the outbuildings. It was much colder now. The wind seemed to be trying to push us back, flinging rain in icy blasts against us. Fraser was just emerging from the barn when we rounded the side of the house.
‘Find anything?’ Brody asked.
‘You’d better see for yourselves.’
He led us back into the barn. I’d last been here with Strachan, when Grace had been missing. Or when I’d thought she was missing, I reminded myself. He’d known all along where she was.
Fraser went to where a petrol-driven lawnmower stood in the far corner. Behind it was a large petrol container. There was no lid, only a broken plastic strap to show where one had been attached.
‘What’s the betting that the top we found near the camper van is from that?’ Fraser said. ‘Remember when Strachan’s wife’s car ran out of petrol? I’d put money that’s where he got his accelerant from to start the fires. Christ, if I get hold of the bastard…’
Brody’s jaw bunched as he looked down at the container. ‘Let’s check the boat.’
The yacht was unlocked. It was as we’d left it, the shattered remains of its comms still lying on the floor. But Strachan wasn’t on board.
‘So where the hell is he?’ Fraser asked, savagely, as we stood in the heaving cockpit. ‘Bastard could be anywhere.’
But even as he said it I knew there was only one place Strachan would have gone. Looking across at Brody I saw that he’d realized too.
He was on the mountain. At the burial cairns.
The storm was destroying itself. Roaring down from the Arctic Circle, the front had gathered speed and force as it crossed the North Atlantic. By the time it reached the UK mainland its elemental fury would be largely spent, torn apart by its own unsustainable violence.
On Runa, though, it had reached its peak, building into a frenzy as though determined to wrench the tiny island from the sea. As we clambered up the exposed slopes of Beinn Tuiridh, the wind seemed to have doubled its intensity. And the temperature had plummeted. The icy rain had turned to hail, white stones that bounced and skidded underfoot, beating down on my hood like gravel.
We’d left the car on the road as close to the foot of the mountain as we could get, and started up. It was still light, but visibility was poor and the afternoon was already passing. There was another hour, two at most, before the first dimming of twilight. And once darkness fell, then being out here could very quickly go from being dangerous to fatal.
Despite the exertion, my hands, feet and face were numb. The cold made my injured shoulder burn with a dull, strength-sapping ache. To make matters worse, we’d only a vague idea of where the cairns were. It had been night when I’d blindly stumbled up here, following the glow from Strachan’s fire, and I’d been delirious with exhaustion and pain. In daylight, the mountainside was a bewildering jumble of boulders and gullies. Its rock-strewn slopes were covered with formations that could be either natural or man-made.
‘Never been up here before,’ Brody panted. ‘But I don’t think the cairns are very far. Shouldn’t take us too long. If we head straight up we’re bound to come to them.’
I wasn’t so sure. The slope was treacherous with loose stone and scree, and there was nothing resembling any sort of path. We were forced to make our own route, often finding ourselves faced with rocks that had to be either scrambled over or bypassed. If he’d managed to carry me down here single-handed at night, Strachan was obviously stronger than he looked.
And more dangerous.
We were walking directly into the wind, bent almost double by the effort. We’d started out close together, but as the steep gradient took its toll we’d become strung out. Brody forged on resolutely, but with my balance impaired by my strapped arm I was finding the going harder. Not as hard as Fraser, though. Overweight and unfit, the police sergeant was wheezing for breath and falling further behind with every step.
I was considering calling for a rest when there was a clatter from behind me. Looking back I saw that Fraser had fallen. Loose rocks formed a mini-avalanche around him as he slid backwards on his hands and knees. He stayed on them, gulping air through his open mouth, too exhausted to get up.
Ahead of us, Brody was carrying on unaware. ‘Brody! Wait!’ I called, the wind throwing my words back at me.
I hurried back down to Fraser. I got my hand under his arm, and tried to pull him to his feet. He was a solid, dead weight.
‘Give me a minute…’ he gasped.
But I could see that a minute, or even longer, wasn�
�t going to make any difference. There was no way he could go any further. I looked up for Brody again and saw him almost lost in the hail. Then a sudden gust peppered my eyes with shards of ice, making me avert my face.
‘Can you make it back to the car?’ I asked, putting my mouth close to his ear so he could hear me over the wind.
He nodded, chest heaving.
‘You sure?’
He waved me on irritably. I left him to it and hurried after Brody. I couldn’t see him at all now. My breathing became ragged as I tried to catch up. I kept my head down, staring at the ground directly in front of me, partly to protect my face from the wind’s bite, but mainly because I was too tired to do anything else. Whenever I looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of Brody, the hail obscured the slope ahead like static on a TV screen.
A stone skidded from under my foot, sending me down on to one knee. I sucked in air, not sure how much further I could go.
‘Brody!’ I shouted, but the only answer was the shriek of the gale.
I clambered to my feet again. It was too exposed to stay where I was. I had to decide whether to carry on or follow Fraser back down, and as I stood there I realized that the tumbles of rock nearby were oddly symmetrical. I’d been so focused on catching up with Brody that I’d not taken notice of the surrounding landscape until now.
I was standing amongst the burial cairns.
But there was no sign of Brody. I told myself that he couldn’t have missed them, that he wouldn’t have gone straight past, even though that was what I’d almost done myself. As I looked round for him an eddy in the wind created a gap in the swirling hail, like a curtain being drawn back. It only lasted for a moment, but while it did I saw a larger stone structure further off along the slope.
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…
Written in Bone dh-2 Page 28