Written in Bone

by Simon Beckett

  Please, let me be wrong.

  I turned to Guthrie as he went past, ushering a huddle of people from the yard. ‘Can I have a sheet of plastic or tarpaulin?’

  I thought he either hadn’t heard or was ignoring me. But a few moments later the big man returned with a bundled-up piece of dirty canvas. He thrust it out at me.

  ‘Here.’

  I started to open it out, struggling in the high wind with only one arm. To my surprise Guthrie came to help. As we wrestled with the flapping canvas, a figure emerged from the shadows. In the flickering light from the flames, I saw it was Cameron. He stared down at the body.

  ‘Dear God,’ he whispered. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. ‘What can I do?’

  There was none of his usual bombast, and I wondered if he was only now starting to realize what was at stake. I might have accepted his offer, but Guthrie didn’t give me the chance.

  ‘Fuck all, as usual,’ he rumbled dismissively. You think a bandage is going to do any good here?’

  Cameron looked as though he ’d been struck. Without a word he turned and made his way out of the yard with the rest. At another time I might have felt sorry for him, but there were more urgent matters just then. A decision would have to be made eventually about what to do with the body, but for now it needed to be covered. Without asking, once we had the tarpaulin open Guthrie helped me start to spread it over the blackened form.

  ‘Who do you think it is?’ he asked.

  WRITTEN IN BONE

  237

  I might have imagined it, but I thought there was an almost fearful note in his voice. I just shook my head as we lowered the canvas and hid the body from sight.

  But the heaviness in my heart told me that Maggie finally had her front-page story.

  The fire had all but burned itself out. What had once been a boat was now a mound of glowing ash and embers, still guttering fitfully with flame. The wind kept it alive for the time being, but it was rapidly dying, beaten by its own fury as much as the efforts of the islanders. The entrance to the boatyard was now cordoned off with a pitifully inadequate strip of police tape, the last that Fraser had left. Tied to two posts, it thrummed like a live thing in the wind, little more than a token obstruction.

  Most of the islanders had gone home. Brody had asked Ellen to wake Fraser when she got back to the hotel, and the police sergeant had appeared not long afterwards, sheepish and rumpled. He ’d tried to grumble that I should have tried harder to wake him, but no one was in the mood to listen to either his complaints or his excuses. We ’d eventually decided on taking the body into the workshop. There was still no way of knowing when SOC would arrive, and the protocol that said a crime scene should be left undisturbed hardly seemed to apply here. Dozens of people had been milling around the boatyard, and after it had been manhandled from the fire there was no longer any point worrying about contaminating the body. I would have to take a look at it later, but in the meantime the best we could do was make sure it was kept safe.

  The body was far too badly burned to be recognizable, but I don’t think anyone really doubted any more who it was. There had still been no sign of Maggie, and for all her faults she wouldn’t have abandoned her grandmother like that. Guthrie and Kinross had carried the body inside using the tarpaulin as a stretcher, and set it at the back of the workshop. Guthrie had gone straight home, subdued and sombre-faced. But Kinross had flatly refused to leave. 238

  Simon Beckett

  ‘Not until I’ve heard what she ’s got to say,’ he declared, jerking his chin towards where Karen Tait waited miserably with her daughter. Brody hadn’t argued, but I thought I knew why. Tait might not respond to pressure from him or Fraser, but Kinross was a different matter. He was one of her own, and I didn’t think she ’d be able to hold out against him.

  Mother and daughter were sitting at the same table where the men had been playing cards that afternoon, out of view of where the body now lay. Mary’s features bore the same vacant expression as when she ’d looked up at my window from the street. She ’d been persuaded to take off Maggie ’s coat. Wrapped in a bin-liner, it was now locked out of sight in the back of the police Range Rover. There had been nothing in its pockets, and no visible bloodstains or signs of damage, but Forensics would still need to examine it for trace evidence. Perhaps it was my imagination, but as I’d watched the girl take it off it already seemed to have lost some of its brightness, the vivid red starting to look faded and worn.

  Kinross had given Mary his heavy oilskin to wear instead. Apparently oblivious to the cold, he ’d helped her on with it almost tenderly. But there was no tenderness in his face as he stared at her mother.

  Karen Tait stared resolutely down at the table ’s cigarette-burned Formica, refusing to look at any of us. Brody took the chair opposite her, and I noticed that Fraser no longer made any objection to him taking over. The retired detective looked tired, but there was no hint of it when he spoke.

  ‘All right, Karen. Where did Mary get the coat?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Come on, we all know it belongs to Maggie Cassidy. So why is Mary wearing it?’

  ‘I told you, it’s hers,’ she said dully, and flinched as Kinross suddenly slammed his hand down on the table.

  ‘Don’t lie! We ’ve all seen Maggie wearing it!’

  ‘Easy,’ Fraser growled. But he backed off when Brody gave a small shake of his head.

  WRITTEN IN BONE

  239

  ‘You saw what was on the fire, Karen!’ Kinross’s voice held part warning, part entreaty. ‘For Christ’s sake, tell us where Mary got the coat!’

  ‘It ’s hers, Iain, honestly!’

  ‘ Don’t fucking lie to me! ’

  Tait ’s resistance abruptly collapsed. ‘I don’t know! I only saw it tonight! I swear, that ’s the God ’s honest truth! She must have found it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘How do I know? You know what she ’s like, she wanders all over the island. She could have got it anywhere!’

  ‘Jesus, Karen,’ Kinross said in disgust.

  ‘It ’s a good coat! Better than I can afford! You think I’m going to throw it away? And don’t you look at me like that, lain Kinross! You never worried about Mary being out on the nights you’ve wanted to come round!’

  Kinross started towards her, but Brody put out a restraining arm.

  ‘Calm down. We need to find out where she found it.’ He turned back to Tait. ‘What time did Mary go out?’

  She gave a sullen shrug. ‘I don’t know. She was out when I got back from the hotel.’

  ‘Which was when?’

  ‘Half past eleven . . . twelve o’clock.’

  ‘And what time did she get in?’

  ‘How should I know? I fell asleep.’

  ‘So when did you see her again?’ Brody asked, patiently. Tait gave an irritable sigh. ‘Not until all the commotion with the fire woke me up.’

  ‘And she had the coat then?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already told you!’

  If he felt any contempt for the woman, Brody didn’t show it as he switched his attention to her daughter.

  ‘Hello, Mary. You know who I am, don’t you?’

  She looked at Brody without comprehension, then went back to the small torch she ’d been playing with. It was a child’s, plastic and brightly coloured. A few flyaway strands of hair had fallen down 240

  Simon Beckett

  across her eyes, but she didn’t seem to notice as she shone the torch beam into her face, switching it on and off.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Kinross said. Despite his words, his tone wasn’t unkind. ‘She probably doesn’t remember where she got it herself.’

  ‘No harm in trying. Mary? Look at me, Mary.’

  Brody spoke gently. Finally, she seemed to notice him. He gave her a smile.

  ‘That’s a nice coat, Mary.’

  Nothing. Then, suddenly, a shy smile lit her face.

&nbs
p; ‘It ’s pretty.’ Her voice was soft, like a little girl’s.

  ‘Yes, it’s very pretty. Where did you get it?’

  ‘It ’s mine.’

  ‘I know. But can you tell me where you got it from?’

  ‘From the man.’

  I felt rather than saw Brody stiffen. ‘Which man was that? Is he here now?’

  She laughed. ‘No!’

  ‘Can you tell me who he is?’

  ‘The man.’

  She said it as though it were obvious.

  ‘This man . . . Will you show me where he gave you the coat?’

  ‘He didn’t give it to me.’

  ‘You mean you found it?’

  She nodded, absently. ‘When they ran off. After all the noise.’

  ‘Who ran off ? What noise, Mary?’

  But he ’d lost her. Brody continued to try for a while, but it was obvious that Mary had told us as much as she was going to. He told Fraser to drive them home, and then come straight back. Kinross also left, but before he did he gave one last look towards the back of the workshop where he and Guthrie had laid the body.

  ‘She always was one for getting into trouble,’ he said, sadly. Then he went out, letting the workshop door bang shut behind him. Outside, the wind ’s banshee wail seemed louder than ever. The rain had started again, thundering against the corrugated roof and al-

  WRITTEN IN BONE

  241

  most drowning out the chug of the workshop’s generator. Brody and I went over to the body. Covered by the tarpaulin, it looked like a primitive sarcophagus as it lay on the concrete floor.

  ‘You think it’s her?’ Brody asked.

  I’d told him about Maggie ’s visit to my room earlier that night. How she ’d known Janice Donaldson’s first name, but wouldn’t say who had told her. I remembered the pensive smile she ’d given me as she ’d left my room. Tomorrow, I promise. Except there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow for Maggie.

  I nodded. ‘Don’t you?’

  Brody sighed. ‘Aye. But let’s see if we can be more sure.’ He glanced at me. ‘You ready?’

  The honest answer would have been no. You never can be, not when it ’s someone you know. Someone you liked. But I just nodded and pulled back the tarpaulin. A waft of warm air greeted me, carrying with it an odour of overcooked meat. The way we respond to smells is largely a matter of context. Given its source, this one was nauseatingly out of place.

  I crouched down beside the body. Shrunken by the fire, it looked pitifully small. Whatever clothing it had worn had burned away, as well as much of the soft tissue. The flames had twisted and warped it, exposing caramelised bone and tendons, drawing up the limbs into the characteristic boxer’s crouch.

  It was a sight that was becoming sickeningly familiar.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Brody asked.

  An image of Maggie ’s gamine grin rose up in my mind. Almost angrily, I pushed it away. Compartmentalise. This is work. Save the rest for later.

  ‘It’s female. The cranium’s way too small to be a man’s.’ I took a deep breath, looking at the smooth bone of the skull that was exposed beneath the blackened scraps of flesh. ‘Also, the chin is pointed, and the forehead and eyebrow ridge are both smooth. A man’s would be much heavier and more pronounced. Then there ’s the height.’

  I indicated where the thigh bone was showing through the 242

  Simon Beckett

  burned muscle tissue, aware of the awful intimacy of what we were doing.

  ‘It ’s hard to be precise when the body’s drawn up like this, but judging by the length of the femur this was someone quite short, even for a woman. Five foot, perhaps a little less. Certainly no taller.’

  ‘Could it be a child?’

  ‘No, it’s definitely an adult.’ I peered into the silent scream of the mouth. ‘The wisdom teeth have broken through. That means she was at least eighteen or nineteen. Probably older.’

  ‘Maggie would have been what? Twenty-three, twenty-four?’

  ‘About that, I expect.’

  Brody sighed. ‘Right height, right age, right sex. There ’s not much doubt, is there?’

  I found it hard to speak. ‘No.’

  Somehow, admitting it made it seem worse, as though I were letting Maggie down in some way. But there was no point in pretending. I forced myself to continue.

  ‘For what it ’s worth, she was at least partially dressed when she was put on to the fire.’ I pointed to a tarnished metal disc that was embedded in the charred flesh between the hipbones. It was the size of a small coin. ‘That ’s a trouser button. The fabric’s burned away, but it ’s melted its way into the flesh. By the look of it I’d guess she was wearing jeans.’

  Just like Maggie had been, the last time I’d seen her. Brody pursed his lips. ‘So she probably wasn’t raped. That ’s something, I suppose.’

  It was a fair assumption. Few rapists would bother to put their victim’s jeans back on before killing her. And certainly not afterwards.

  ‘Any idea about cause of death?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, from what I can see there ’s no trauma to the skull. They got the body off the fire before cranial pressure caused a blow-out, which simplifies things a little. There ’s no sign of any head injury as there was with both Janice Donaldson and Duncan. I suppose it ’s possible that she just wasn’t hit as hard, although . . .’

  WRITTEN IN BONE

  243

  I trailed off, bending forward for a closer look. The fire had stripped away the skin and muscle of the throat to expose burned cartilage and tendon. I scrutinised it, then did the same to the arms and legs, and finally the torso. The soft tissue was charred enough to disguise the signs, but not hide them altogether.

  ‘What is it?’ Brody prompted.

  I pointed to the throat. ‘See here? The tendon on the left-hand side of the throat ’s been severed. Both ends have contracted right back away from each other.’

  ‘Severed, as in cut?’ Brody asked, leaning forward to see.

  ‘Definitely as in cut. The fire might have caused them to snap eventually, but the ends are far too clean for that.’

  ‘You mean someone slit her throat?’

  ‘I can’t be sure without carrying out a proper examination, but that ’s how it looks. There are what look like other puncture wounds as well. Here, on the shoulder. The muscle fibres are badly burned, but you can still make out a cut running across them. Same with the chest and stomach. I’d guess when I take X-rays we ’ll find blade marks on the ribs, and probably other bones as well.’

  ‘So she was stabbed to death?’ Brody asked.

  ‘The fire ’s made it hard to say if she was stabbed or hacked, but she was certainly attacked with a bladed weapon. I’ll need to examine the cuts to the bones in a lab before I can say for sure what type. But it’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘Complicated how?’

  ‘Her neck’s broken.’

  I kneaded my eyes as a wave of tiredness washed over me. Tired or not, though, there was no doubt about what I’d seen.

  ‘Look at the angle of her head. I don’t want to disturb the body too much, but if you look you can see the third and fourth vertebrae are visible. They’re splintered. And the left arm and right shin are broken as well. You can see the bones protruding through the burned tissue.’

  ‘Couldn’t that have happened when the boat collapsed in the fire, or when she was dragged out?’

  244

  Simon Beckett

  ‘That might have caused a few breaks, but not this many. And a lot of these look like compression fractures, so they were caused by an impact . . .’

  I stopped.

  ‘What?’ Brody asked.

  But I was going to the grubby window. It was too dark to see much, but in the dying light from the burning boat I could just make out the dark bulk of the cliff face, towering above the boatyard.

  ‘That’s how he got her body down here. He threw her off the cliff.
’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘It ’d explain the fractures. She was attacked with a knife, and either fell or was thrown off the top. Then her killer came down and dragged the body from the foot of the cliff into the yard.’

  Brody was nodding. ‘There are steps at the end of the harbour that lead to the cliff top. With a torch you could just about manage them in the dark, and it’d be a lot quicker than taking the road back down through the village. Less chance of being seen, too.’

  That didn’t explain why Maggie would have been up there in the first place. But at least now we were starting to form a picture of what had happened, if not why.

  Brody rubbed his face wearily, his hand rasping on the grey stubble silvering his chin. ‘Do you think she was alive when she went over?’

  ‘I doubt it. Fall victims almost always have what are called Colles’

  fractures in their wrists, where they’ve put out their arms to stop themselves. There ’s nothing like that here. Only one arm’s been broken, and it ’s above the elbow, in the humerus. That suggests she was either dead or unconscious when she fell.’

  He glanced out of the workshop’s window. It was still pitch black outside. ‘It ’s too dark to see anything up there now. Soon as it ’s light we ’ll go up to the cliff top and take a look. In the meantime—’

  He broke off as there was a sudden commotion outside. There was a yell, then something clattered to the floor as we heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. Brody jumped up and ran for the

  WRITTEN IN BONE

  245

  door, but it was flung open before he reached it. A blast of icy wind roared into the workshop as Fraser burst in, dragging someone with him.

  ‘Look who I found snooping at the window!’ he panted, thrusting the intruder ahead of him.

  The figure stumbled into the centre of the workshop. Shocked and pale, the acne-scarred face of Kevin Kinross stared at us fearfully.