‘Hi,’ I said, smiling.
There was something familiar about her. I was trying to place it, looking for something of Brody in her without being able to find it. Then I smelt the musky scent she was wearing and the smile froze on my face.
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‘Hello, Dr Hunter,’ Grace Strachan said.
Everything suddenly seemed both slowed down and pin-prick sharp. There was time to think, uselessly, that the yacht hadn’t slipped its chain after all, and then Grace ’s hand was emerging from her shoulder bag with the knife.
The sight of it freed me from my shock. I started to react as she lunged at me, but it was always going to be too late. I grabbed at the blade, but it slid through my hand, slicing my palm and fingers to the bone. The pain of that hadn’t even had time to register when the knife went into my stomach.
There wasn’t any pain, just a coldness and a sense of shock. And an awful sense of violation. This isn’t happening. But it was. I sucked in air to shout or scream, but managed only a choked gasp. I clutched hold of the knife ’s handle, feeling the hot sticky wetness of my blood smearing both our hands, gripping it as tightly as I could as Grace tried to pull it out. I held on even as my legs sagged under me. Keep hold. Keep hold or you’re dead.
And so is Jenny.
Grace was grunting as she tried to tug the knife free, following me down to the floor as I slid down the wall. Then, with a last frustrated gasp, she gave up. She stood over me, panting, her mouth contorted.
‘He let me go!’ she spat, and I saw the tears running in parallel tracks down her cheeks. ‘He killed himself but he let me go!’
I tried to say something, anything, but no words would form. Her face hung above me for a moment longer, ugly and twisted, and then it was gone. The doorway was empty, the sound of running feet a fading echo on the street.
I looked down at my stomach. The knife handle protruded from it, obscenely. My shirt was soaked through with blood. I could feel it under me, pooling on the tiled floor. Get up. Move. But I no longer had any strength.
I tried to shout out. All that emerged was a croak. And now it was growing dark. Dark and cold. Already? But it’s summer. There was 326
Simon Beckett
still no pain, just a spreading numbness. From a nearby street, the chime of an ice-cream van drifted cheerfully on the air. I could hear Jenny moving around on the terrace, the tinkle of glasses. It sounded friendly and inviting. I knew I should try to move, but it seemed like too much effort. Everything was growing hazy. All I could remember was that I couldn’t let go of the knife. I didn’t know why any more. Only that it was very important.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Embarking on a sequel is a daunting task for any writer. A number of people helped bring Written in Bone to fruition. DC Iain Souter of Shetland Police gave invaluable background on the difficulties of policing remote Scottish islands, as well as insights into island life—
thanks, Iain. Dr Tim Thomson, lecturer in Forensic Anthropology at the University of Teesside (formerly of the University of Dundee), generously shared his expertise on fire deaths, and Dr Arpad Vass of Oak Ridge National Laboratory in Tennessee once again fielded queries promptly. Further forensic background came from several non-fiction works: Death’s Acre, by Dr Bill Bass and Jon Jefferson; Introduction to Forensic Anthropology, by Steven N. Byers; Flesh and Bone, by Myriam Nafte; and Corpse, by Jessica Snyder Sachs. Barry Gromett of the Met Office advised on winter storm conditions in the Outer Hebrides, while the South Yorkshire Community Fire Safety office and the press offices of South Yorkshire Police, Northern Constabulary and the Nursing and Midwifery Council were extremely helpful. Any factual errors or inaccuracies should be laid firmly at my door, not theirs.
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Ackno wledgments
I’d like to thank my agents, Mic Cheetham and Simon Kavanagh; Camilla Ferrier, Caroline Hardman and the rest of the Marsh Agency; my editor Simon Taylor and all at Transworld, and my US
editor Caitlin Alexander. Thanks also to Jeremy Freeston for grabbing his video camera at short notice, to Ben Steiner for his suggestions, to Kate Hurley and SCF for their read-throughs, and to my parents, Sheila and Frank Beckett, for their continued support and enthusiasm. Finally, thank you to my wife Hilary for her sometimes painful editorial insights, and above all her patience.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SIMON BECKETT is a freelance journalist and writes for national newspapers and colour supplements. The author of the international bestseller The Chemistry of Death, he lives in Sheffield, England, where he is at work on his novel featuring Dr. David Hunter.
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