WRITTEN IN BONE
187
The muted sounds of movement came from inside, then the door was opened. Kevin, Kinross’s teenage son, stood in the hallway, eyes briefly making contact before darting off again. The angry red mounds of acne scarred his face in a cruel topography.
‘Is your father in?’ Brody asked.
The teenager gave a shake of his head, not looking at us.
‘Know where he is?’
He shuffled uncomfortably, narrowing the gap in the doorway until only a thin strip the width of his face remained open.
‘Down at the boatyard,’ he mumbled. ‘In the workshop.’
The door snicked shut.
We went back to the car. The harbour was a turmoil of crashing waves and churning boats. Out on the jetty, the ferry pitched and rolled at its berth. The sea churned wildly, the spume so thick it was indistinguishable from the rain.
Fraser drove down to the corrugated shack on the seafront that I’d passed on my way to Brody’s the previous day. It was set close to the foot of the tall cliffs that encircled the harbour, and which protected it from the worst of the weather.
‘The yard ’s communal,’ Brody said as we climbed out of the car and hurried over, having to fight against the wind. ‘Everybody with a boat chips in to the running costs, and if they need repairs everyone pitches in.’
‘Is that Guthrie ’s?’ I asked, indicating the dilapidated fishing boat hauled up on blocks that I’d noticed the day before. It appeared in even worse condition up close. Half of its timber hull was missing, giving it the skeletal look of some long-dead prehistoric animal.
‘Aye. Supposed to be making it seaworthy again, but he doesn’t seem in any hurry.’ Brody shook his head in disapproval. ‘Rather spend his money in the bar.’
Skirting the covered piles of building supplies stacked nearby, we hurried for the workshop entrance. The wind threatened to wrench the door from its hinges when we opened it. Inside, the workshop was stiflingly hot, thick with the smell of machine oil and sawdust. Lathes, welding torches and cutting gear littered the floor, while the 188
Simon Beckett
walls were covered with shelves of tools, stained black with ancient grease. A radio was playing, the tinny melody fighting against the chug of a generator.
About half a dozen men were inside. Guthrie and a smaller man were crouched over the dismembered remains of an engine that was spread out on the concrete floor. Kinross and the others were playing cards at an old Formica table, on which stood half-drunk mugs of tea. A tin foil pie case doubled as an ashtray, overflowing with cigarette stubs.
They had all broken off what they were doing to stare at us. Their expressions weren’t exactly hostile, but neither were they friendly. They regarded us blankly. Waiting.
Brody stopped in front of Kinross. ‘Can we have a word, Iain?’
Kinross shrugged. ‘I’m not stopping you.’
‘I mean in private.’
‘It ’s private enough here.’ To emphasise his point he opened a pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette with oil-stained fingers.
Brody didn’t bother to argue. ‘We need to use the ferry’s radio.’
Kinross ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper, then smoothed it down. He nodded towards Fraser.
‘What ’s wrong with his? Don’t the police have radios these days?’
Fraser glared back without answering.
Kinross plucked a piece of tobacco from his mouth. ‘Fucked, are they?’
I could hear the sergeant ’s heavy adenoidal breathing, like an angry bull’s, as he started forward. ‘Aye, and so will you be if—’
‘We ’re asking for your help,’ Brody cut in, laying a restraining hand on Fraser’s shoulder. ‘We need to get in touch with the mainland. It’s important, or we wouldn’t ask.’
Kinross unhurriedly lit the roll-up. He shook out the match and tossed it into the overflowing ashtray, then considered Brody through a plume of blue smoke.
‘You can try, for what it’s worth.’
WRITTEN IN BONE
189
‘Meaning what?’ Fraser demanded.
‘You won’t be able to transmit from the harbour. The radio’s VHF. Has to have line-of-sight, and the cliffs block the signal to the mainland.’
‘What if you need to send a Mayday?’ Brody asked, incredulous. Kinross shrugged. ‘If you’re in the harbour, you wouldn’t need to.’
Fraser had bunched his fists. ‘So take the bloody boat out to sea, where you can transmit.’
‘You want to try going out in this, go ahead. But not on my ferry.’
Brody kneaded the bridge of his nose. ‘How about the other boats?’
‘All VHF, the same.’
‘There ’s Mr Strachan’s yacht,’ one of the card players suggested. Guthrie laughed. ‘Aye, that’s got communications coming out of its arse.’
I saw Brody’s face close down. ‘Look, can we try the ferry anyway?’
Kinross took an indifferent drag of his roll-up. ‘If you want to waste your time, it’s up to you.’ He nipped out the glowing end of his cigarette and put it in his tobacco pouch as he rose to his feet. ‘Sorry, lads.’
‘I was losing, anyway,’ one of the card players said, throwing in his cards. ‘Time I went home.’
Guthrie wiped his hands on an oily cloth. ‘Aye. I’m off for something to eat.’
The other card players were already throwing their cards down on the table, reaching for their own coats as Kinross pulled on an oilskin and went out, letting the doors swing back on us as we followed. Rain and spray filled the air with an iodine tang as he strode bareheaded along the harbour to the jetty, oblivious to the breaking waves. The ferry was bucking against its moorings, but he walked up the gangplank without hesitation.
The rest of us were more cautious, holding on to the gangplank’s railing as it tipped and swayed. It was barely any better once we were on board, the slippery deck pitching unpredictably. I looked up at the 190
Simon Beckett
ferry’s aerial, bent and quivering in the wind, then at the cliffs surrounding us. I could see now what Kinross meant. They hemmed the small harbour in on three sides, rising up like a wall between us and the mainland.
Kinross was already fiddling with the radio set when we crammed into the claustrophobic bridge. I braced myself against the wall as the deck pitched queasily underfoot. A medley of discordant hums and squeaks came from the radio set as Kinross spoke into its handset, then waited vainly for a response.
‘Who are you calling?’ Brody asked.
Kinross answered without turning round. “Coastguard. They’ve got the biggest radio mast on Lewis. If they can’t hear us no one else will.’
We waited as he spoke into the handset, receiving only a hollow hissing in return.
Fraser had been watching the ferry captain with an expression of sullen dislike. ‘You remember bringing any strangers across on the ferry about four or five weeks ago?’ he asked suddenly. Brody gave him an angry look, but he took no notice. Kinross didn’t turn round.
‘No.’
‘No what? No you didn’t bring anyone, or no you don’t remember?’
Kinross stopped what he was doing and turned to stare at him.
‘This to do with the murder?’
‘Just answer the question.’
Kinross’s smile threatened violence. ‘And if I don’t?’
Brody cut in before Fraser could respond. ‘Take it easy, Iain, no one ’s accusing you of anything. We just came out here to use the radio.’
Deliberately, Kinross lowered the handset. He leaned back against the swaying bulkhead, folding his arms as he regarded us.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’
‘It ’s police business,’ Fraser growled.
WRITTEN IN BONE
191
‘Aye, and this is my ferry, and my radio. You want to use it, you can tel
l me what ’s so urgent.’
‘We can’t yet, Iain,’ Brody interposed, smoothly. ‘But it ’s important. Trust me on that.’
‘This is our island. We ’ve a right to know what ’s going on.’
‘I know, and you will, I promise.’
‘When?’
Brody sighed. ‘Tonight. But right now we need to contact the mainland.’
‘Now listen—’ Fraser began, but Brody spoke over him.
‘You’ve got my word.’
Kinross stared at him, his expression giving nothing away. Then he got up and headed for the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Brody asked.
‘You wanted me to try the radio, I have.’
‘Can’t you keep trying?’
‘No. Anyone could hear, we ’d know by now.’
‘What about other ships? Someone could relay a message back to the mainland for us. The cliffs wouldn’t block that.’
‘Maybe not, but they’re still going to funnel the signal, and the set’s range is only thirty miles. You want to waste your time pissing in the wind, that ’s up to you, but you can do it by yourselves.’ He indicated the handset. ‘Press the switch to talk, let go to receive. And switch it off when you’ve finished.’
With that he walked out. As the door banged shut behind him. Fraser turned on Brody, angrily.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’ve no authority to tell them anything!’
‘We don’t have any choice. We need these people ’s help. You’re not going to get it by yelling.’
Fraser’s face was crimson. ‘One of those bastards killed Duncan!’
‘Aye, and antagonising everyone ’s not going to find out who did it.’ Brody stopped, restraining himself. He took a deep breath.
‘Kinross is right. There ’s no point wasting any more time here when 192
Simon Beckett
Strachan’s yacht has a satellite comms system. We can call into the school on the way and see if Grace is there.’
‘And if she ’s not?’ Fraser demanded, truculently.
‘Then we ’ll wait at the house until one of them gets home,’
Brody grated, clearly not happy himself at having to ask anything of Strachan. ‘Unless you’ve any better ideas?’
Fraser hadn’t. We drove up through the village from the harbour, but when we reached the school Grace ’s black Porsche wasn’t outside. The small building was unlit and empty.
‘They must have sent the kids home early because of the power cut. We probably missed her when we detoured to see Kinross,’
Brody said, his frustration evident.
There was nothing to do but head for Strachan’s house and hope she was there. Fraser drove in moody silence. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He wasn’t an easy man to like, but Duncan’s death had hit him hard. And he ’d been out of his depth even before his colleague was murdered. We were approaching the big house when the sergeant suddenly tensed.
‘What the hell’s he doing?’
Strachan’s Saab was tearing down the road directly towards us. Fraser swore and swerved into the side, stamping on the brake as the Saab skidded to a halt just a few feet away.
‘Bloody idiot!’ Fraser cursed.
Strachan had jumped out and was running towards us, not even bothering to close his car door. Fraser angrily wound down the window and yelled at him.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’
Strachan didn’t seem to hear. His face was shockingly pale, his eyes wide and scared as he bent to the open window.
‘Grace is missing!’ he gasped.
‘What do you mean, missing?’ Fraser demanded.
‘I mean she ’s missing! She ’s gone!’
Brody had climbed out of the Range Rover. ‘Slow down and tell us what’s happened.’
WRITTEN IN BONE
193
‘I’ve told you! Christ, are you all bloody deaf? We have to find her!’
‘We will, but you’re going to have to calm down and tell us what you know.’
Strachan made an effort to compose himself. ‘I got back a few minutes ago. Grace ’s car was here, and there were lights on and music playing, so I thought she was in the house. She ’d left a cup of coffee going cold in the kitchen, but when I called she didn’t answer. I looked in every room, but there ’s no sign of her!’
‘Couldn’t she have gone for a walk?’ Fraser asked.
‘Grace? In this weather? Look, why are we just standing here, we ’ve got to do something!’
Brody turned to Fraser, automatically assuming command. ‘We need to organize a search. Go back to the village and bring as many people back as you can.’
‘What about you?’ Fraser asked, not liking being told what to do.
‘I’m going to go up to the house and take a look.’
‘I’ve told you, she isn’t there!’ Strachan almost yelled.
‘We ’ll take another look anyway. Dr Hunter, do you want to come with me?’
I’d been about to suggest it anyway. If Grace was hurt I’d be more use here than rounding up a search party in the village. We hurried over to the Saab as Fraser drove off in the Range Rover.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Brody, in a low voice. He just shook his head, his expression grim.
Strachan had left the Saab’s engine running. He barely waited for us to get in before he set off, reversing back up the road and up the driveway before screeching to a halt next to Grace ’s black Porsche SUV. Without waiting to see if we followed, he ran into the house shouting his wife ’s name. The only response was frenzied barking from the dog in the kitchen.
‘See, she ’s not here!’ he said, pushing his hand through his hair distractedly. ‘And Oscar was running around outside when I got back. If Grace had gone anywhere she wouldn’t have just left him outside like that!’
194
Simon Beckett
There was a knot of tension in my gut as I heard the catch in his voice. I knew what he was going through. I’d once gone to Jenny’s house and found the same terrible absence myself. There had been a killer loose then as well, and being here now, seeing the fear in Strachan’s eyes, gave me a terrible sense of déjà vu. But Brody remained calm as we carried out a quick search of the house. There was no sign of Grace.
‘We ’re just wasting time!’ Strachan said as we finished, his panic nearing the surface.
‘Did you look in the outbuildings?’ Brody asked.
‘Yes! There ’s only the barn, and she ’s not in there!’
‘What about the cove?’
Strachan just stared at him. ‘I . . . No, but Grace never goes down there, not without me.’
‘Let’s take a look anyway, shall we?’
Strachan led us into the kitchen. A half-drunk cup of coffee stood on the table, a book opened but face down next to it, as though Grace had merely stepped out for a moment. Impatiently pushing the retriever aside, Strachan went out through the back door and rushed for the steps leading down to the cove.
I’d been half afraid we ’d see Grace ’s broken body lying on the shingle below us. But except for the yacht moored at the short jetty, the cove was empty. It was a beautiful boat, its hull squeaking against the rubber fenders as the sea threw it about, tall mast swinging back and forth like the arm of a broken metronome. Strachan hurried along the jetty towards it. He bounded up the gangplank and ran to the cockpit. I was slower to board, struggling for balance with one arm strapped up. As I stepped on to the deck Strachan threw back the cockpit hatch and suddenly froze. When I reached him I saw why.
Like the rest of the yacht, the cockpit was beautifully equipped: teak panels, stainless steel fittings, and an elaborate instrument console. Or what was left of it. The radio and satcom had been smashed to pieces, the deck below them littered with torn wires and broken circuitry.
WRITTEN IN BONE
195
Strachan stared at it for a moment, then rushed t
hrough the cockpit to the main cabin.
‘Grace? Oh, God, Grace!’
She lay on the cabin’s floor. Her head and shoulders were covered with a sack, but below that Grace ’s white parka was clearly visible. She lay curled on her side, arms pulled behind her and tied behind her back.
From the waist down she was naked.
Or almost. Her feet hadn’t been bound, but her jeans had been left pulled down around her ankles, tethering them as securely as a rope. Her pants were around her knees, as though her attacker had been interrupted in the act of removing them. She looked obscenely vulnerable lying there, her long legs bare and blue-white with the cold. She wasn’t moving. I thought we were too late, but then Strachan touched her and she suddenly began to thrash around.
‘Hold her, don’t let her hurt herself !’ I warned, trying to catch her feet.
‘It ’s all right, Grace, it ’s me! It ’s me!’ Strachan said, yanking the sacking from her head.
Underneath it her hair was a tangled mess, obscuring her face. A piece of dirty cloth had been crammed into her mouth. Above it her eyes were wide and terrified, but then they fixed on Strachan and she immediately stopped struggling.
‘It ’s all right, I’m here, it ’s all right!’ he chanted, easing the gag from her mouth. She sucked in a breath, sobbing.
‘ Michael, oh, thank God, Michael! ’
Her face was flushed and puffy, the skin imprinted with the rough hessian pattern of the sack. Her right cheek was discoloured by a livid bruise, and her mouth was swollen and bloody. But other than that there were no obvious injuries I could see.
‘Are you all right? Are you hurt?’ Strachan was asking her, his voice cracked.
‘No, I . . . I don’t think so.’
‘Did he sexually assault you?’ Brody asked bluntly. 196
Simon Beckett
‘Oh, for God ’s sake!’ Strachan exploded. Even I was shocked at the question.
But Grace was shaking her head. ‘No . . . no, he didn’t . . . I wasn’t raped.’
Thank God, I thought. At least she ’d been spared that. And it was probably better to deal with the issue now and get it out of the way. Perhaps Brody wasn’t being insensitive after all. Tears were running down Strachan’s face as he tenderly brushed the hair from his wife ’s face. ‘Who did it? Did you see him?’
Written in Bone Page 20