On the remote Hebridean island of Runa, a grisly discovery awaits the arrival of forensic anthropologist Dr David Hunter.
A body – almost totally incinerated but for the feet and a single hand – has been found. The local police are quick to record an accidental death but Hunter’s instincts say otherwise: he’s convinced it’s murder. In fact it appears Runa is far from the peaceful community it first appears – and a burned corpse is only one of its dark secrets.
Then an Atlantic storm descends, severing all power and contact with the mainland. And as the storm rages, the killing begins in earnest …
Powerful, unpredictable and shocking, Written in Bone is the nerve-shredding new crime thriller from the No. 1 international bestselling storyteller.
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Simon Beckett
Copyright
For Hilary
GIVEN THE RIGHT temperature, everything burns. Wood. Clothing.
People.
At 250° Celsius, flesh will ignite. Skin blackens and splits. The subcutaneous fat starts to liquefy, like grease in a hot pan. Fuelled by it, the body starts to burn. Arms and legs catch first, acting as kindling to the greater mass of the torso. Tendons and muscle fibres contract, causing the burning limbs to move in an obscene parody of life. Last to go are the organs. Cocooned in moistness, they often remain even after the rest of the soft tissue has been consumed.
But bone is, quite literally, a different matter. Bone stubbornly resists all but the hottest fires. And even when the carbon has burned from it, leaving it as dead and lifeless as pumice, bone will still retain its shape. Now, though, it is an insubstantial ghost of its former self that will easily crumble; the final bastion of life transformed to ash. It’s a process that, with few variations, follows the same inexorable pattern.
Yet not always.
The peace of the old cottage is broken by a footfall. The rotting door is pushed open, its rusted hinges protesting the disturbance. Daylight falls into the room, then is blocked out as a shadow fills the doorway. The man ducks his head to see into the darkened interior. The old dog with him hesitates, its senses already alerting it to what’s within. Now the man, too, pauses, as though reluctant to cross the threshold. When the dog begins to venture inside he recalls it with a word.
‘Here.’
Obediently, the dog returns, glancing nervously at the man with eyes grown opaque with cataracts. As well as the scent from inside the cottage, the animal can sense its owner’s nervousness.
‘Stay.’
The dog watches, anxiously, as the man advances further into the derelict cottage. The odour of damp envelops him. And now another smell is making itself known. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the man crosses to a low door set in the back wall. It has swung shut. He puts out his hand to push it open, then pauses again. Behind him, the dog gives a low whine. He doesn’t hear it. Gently, he eases open the door, as though fearful of what he’s going to see.
But at first he sees nothing. The room is dim, the only light coming from a small window whose glass is cracked and cobwebbed with decades of dirt. In the mean light that bleeds through, the room retains its secrets for a few moments longer. Then, as the man’s eyes adjust, details begin to emerge.
And he sees what’s lying in the room.
He sucks in a breath as though punched, taking an involuntary step backwards.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’
The words are soft, but seem unnaturally loud in the still confines of the cottage. The man’s face has paled. He looks around, as if fearful he’ll find someone there with him. But he’s alone.
He backs out of the doorway, as if reluctant to turn away from the object on the floor. Only when the warped door has creaked shut again, cutting off his view of the other room, does he turn his back.
His gait is unsteady as he goes outside. The old dog greets him, but is ignored as the man reaches inside his coat and fumbles out a pack of cigarettes. His hands are trembling, and it takes three attempts for him to ignite the lighter. He draws the smoke deep into his lungs, a nub of glowing ash chasing the paper back towards the filter. By the time the cigarette is finished his trembling has steadied.
He drops the stub on to the grass and treads it out before bending down to retrieve it. Then, slipping it into his coat pocket, he takes a deep breath and goes to make the phone call.
I was on my way to Glasgow airport when the call came. It was a foul February morning, brooding grey skies and a depressing mizzle driven by cold winds. The east coast was being lashed by storms, and although they hadn’t worked their way this far inland yet, it didn’t look promising.
I only hoped the worst would hold off long enough for me to catch my flight. I was on my way back to London, having spent the previous week first recovering then examining a body from a moorland grave out on the Grampian highlands. It had been a thankless task. The crystalline frost had turned the moors and peaks to iron, as breathtakingly cold as it was beautiful. The mutilated victim had been a young woman, who still hadn’t been identified. It was the second such body I’d been asked to recover from the Grampians in recent months. As yet it had been kept out of the press, but no one on the investigating team was in any doubt that the same killer was responsible for both. One who would kill again if he wasn’t caught, and at the moment that wasn’t looking likely. What made it worse was that, although the state of decomposition made it hard to be sure, I was convinced that the mutilations weren’t post-mortem.
So all in all, it had been a gruelling trip, and I was looking forward to going home. For the past eighteen months I’d been living in London, based at the forensic science department of a university. It was a temporary contract that gave me access to lab facilities until I found something more permanent, but in recent weeks I’d spent far more time working out in the field than I had in my office. I’d promised Jenny, my girlfriend, that we’d be able to spend some time together after this. It wasn’t the first time I’d made that promise, but this time I was determined to keep it.
When my phone rang I thought it would be her, calling to make sure I was on my way home. But the number on the caller display wasn’t one I recognized. When I answered, the voice at the other end was gruff and no-nonsense.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Dr Hunter. I’m Detective Superintendent Graham Wallace, at Northern Force Headquarters in Inverness. Can you spare me a few minutes?’
He had the tone of someone used to getting his own way, and a harsh accent that spoke of Glasgow tenements rather than the softer cadences of Inverness.
‘Just a few. I’m on my way to catch a flight.’
‘I know. I’ve just spoken to DCI Allan Campbell at Grampian Police, and he told me you’d finished up here. I’m glad I’ve caught you.’
Campbell was the Senior Investigating Officer I’d been working with on the body recovery. A decent man and a good officer, he found it difficult to separate himself from his work. That was something I could appreciate.
I glanced at the taxi driver, conscious of being overheard. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for a favour.’ Wallace clipped the words out, as though each one was costing more than he liked to pay. ‘You’ll have seen about the train crash this morning?’
I had. At my hotel before I’d left I’d watched the news reports of a West Coast commuter express that had derailed after hitting a van left on the line. From the TV footage it looked bad, the train carriages lying mangled and twisted by the track. No one knew yet how many people had been killed.
‘We’ve got everyone we can up there now, but it’s chaos at the moment,’ Wallace continued. ‘There’s a chance the derailment was deliberate, so we’re having to treat the whole area as a crime scene. We’re calling in help from other forces, but right now we’re running at full stretch.’
I thought then I could guess what was coming. According to the news reports, some of the carriages had caught fire, which would make victim identification both a priority and a forensic nightmare. But before that could even begin, the bodies would have to be recovered, and from what I’d seen that was still some way off.
‘I’m not sure how much help I’d be at the moment,’ I told him.
‘It isn’t the crash I’m calling about,’ he said, impatiently. ‘We’ve got a report of a fire death out in the Western Isles. Small island called Runa, in the Outer Hebrides.’
I hadn’t heard of it, but that was hardly surprising. All I knew about the Outer Hebrides was that the islands were some of the most remote outposts of the UK, miles from anywhere off the northwest coast of Scotland.
‘Suspicious?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t sound like it. Might be suicide, but more likely to be a drunk or a vagrant who fell asleep too close to a campfire. Dog walker found it at an abandoned croft and called it in. He’s a retired DI, lives out there now. I’ve worked with him. Used to be a good man.’
I wondered if the used to be was significant. ‘So what else did he say about it?’
There was a beat before he replied. ‘Just that it’s badly burned. But I don’t want to pull resources away from a major incident unless I have to. A couple of the local boys from Stornoway are going out by ferry later today, and I’d like you to go with them and take a look. See if you think it’s low priority, or if I need to send a SOC team. I’d like an expert assessment before I press the panic button, and Allan Campbell says you’re bloody good.’
The attempt at flattery sat awkwardly with his bluff manner. I’d noticed the hesitation when I’d asked about the body, too, and wondered if there was something he wasn’t telling me. But if Wallace thought there was anything suspicious about the death, he’d be sending a Scene of Crime team, train crash or not.
The taxi was almost at the airport. I had every reason to say no. I’d only just finished working on one major investigation, and this sounded fairly mundane; the sort of everyday tragedy that never makes it into the newspapers. I thought about having to tell Jenny that I wouldn’t be back today after all. Given the amount of time I’d spent away recently, I knew that wouldn’t go down well.
Wallace must have sensed my reluctance. ‘Should only take a couple of days, including getting out there. The thing is, it sounds as if there might be something … odd about it.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t suspicious?’
‘It isn’t. At least, nothing I’ve heard makes me think it is. Look, I don’t want to say too much, but that’s why I’d like an expert such as yourself to take a look.’
I hate being manipulated. Even so, I couldn’t deny my curiosity had been aroused.
‘I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t hard pressed right now,’ Wallace added, turning the screw another notch.
Outside the rain-smeared taxi window I saw a road sign saying the airport was approaching. ‘I’ll have to get back to you,’ I said. ‘Give me five minutes.’
He didn’t like that, but he could hardly object. I rang off, biting my lip for a moment before dialling a number I knew off by heart.
Jenny’s voice came on the line. I smiled at the sound of it, even though I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation we were about to have.
‘David! I was just on my way to work. Where are you?’
‘On my way to the airport.’
I heard her laugh. ‘Thank God for that. I thought you were phoning to say you weren’t coming back today after all.’
I felt my stomach sink. ‘Actually that’s what I’m calling about,’ I said. ‘The thing is, I’ve just been asked to go on another job.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s just for a day or two. In the Outer Hebrides. But there’s no one else to do it right now.’ I stopped myself from explaining about the train crash, knowing it would sound as though I was making excuses.
There was a pause. I hated the way the laughter had gone from Jenny’s voice. ‘So what did you say?’
‘That I’d let them know. I wanted to talk to you first.’
‘Why? We both know you’ve already made up your mind.’
I didn’t want this to develop into an argument. I glanced at the cab driver again.
‘Look, Jenny …’
‘You mean you haven’t?’
I hesitated.
‘That’s what I thought,’ she said.
‘Jenny …’
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll be late for work.’
There was a click as she hung up. I sighed. The day wasn’t getting off to a good start. So call her back and say you’ll turn it down. My finger poised over the phone.
‘Don’t worry, pal. My wife’s always giving me a hard time too,’ the taxi driver said over his shoulder. ‘She’ll get over it, eh?’
I made a non-committal comment. In the distance I could see a plane taking off from the airport. The driver indicated for the turn as I keyed in the number. It was answered on the first ring.
‘How do I get there?’ I asked Wallace.
I SPEND MOST of my working day with the dead. The long dead, sometimes. I’m a forensic anthropologist. It’s a field of expertise, and a fact of life, that most people prefer not to confront until they have to. For a while I was one of them. When my wife and daughter were killed in a car crash, working in a field that reminded me every day of what I’d lost was too painful. So I became a GP, a doctor of medicine tending to the living rather than the dead.
But then events occurred that forced me to take up my original vocation once again. My calling, you might say. Part pathology, part archaeology, what I do goes beyond either. Because even after human biology has broken down, when what was once a life is reduced to corruption, decay and old, dry bones, the dead can still bear witness. They can still tell a story, if only you know how to interpret it. That’s what I do.
Coax the dead to tell their story.
Wallace had obviously anticipated that I wouldn’t turn him down. A seat had already been booked for me on a flight to Lewis, the main island in the Outer Hebrides. The flight was delayed by almost an hour because of bad weather, so I sat in the departure lounge, trying not to watch as the London flight I should have been on was called, closed, and finally disappeared from the board.
It was a bumpy ride, whose only redeeming feature was that it was short. The day was half gone by the time I caught a taxi from the airport to the ferry terminal at Stornoway, a dour working town still largely dependent on the fishing industry. The dock where I was dropped off was misty and cold, pungent with the usual harbour fug of diesel and fish. I’d been expecting to board one of the big car ferries that belched smoke into the rainy sky above the grey harbour, but the boat I found myself standing before looked more like a small fishing vessel than anything meant to carry passengers. Only the distinctive presence of a police Range Rover taking up most of the deck told me I was at the right place.
A boarding ramp led up to it, rocking queasily in the heavy swell. A uniformed police sergeant was standing on the concrete quayside at the bottom, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His cheeks and nose had the permanent flush of broken capillaries. Pouchy eyes regarded me balefully over a salt and pepper moustache as I wrestled with my bag and flight case.
‘You Dr Hunter? I’m Sergeant Fraser,’ he informed me, gruffly. There was no first name, and his hands remained in his pockets. He spoke with a hard, almost nasal burr, very different to the mainland Scottish accents I’d heard. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to turn up.’
With that, he went back up the ramp, making no offer to help with my heavy luggage. I hefted the shoulder bag and aluminium flight case and started up after him. The ramp was wet and slippery, rising and falling unevenly with the slap of the waves. I struggled to keep my footing, trying to time my steps with the unsteady motion. Then someone was trotting down the ramp to help. A young uniformed constable grinned as he took the flight case from my hand.
‘Here, I’ll take that.’
I didn’t argue. He went over to the Range Rover strapped to the deck and loaded the case into the back.
‘What have you got in here, a body?’ he asked, cheerfully.
I put my bag in with the aluminium case. ‘No, it just feels like it. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ He couldn’t have been much older than twenty. He had a friendly, open face, and his uniform looked neat even in the rain. ‘I’m PC McKinney, but just call me Duncan.’
‘David Hunter.’
His handshake was enthusiastic, as though to make up for Fraser’s lack. ‘So you the forensic man?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Great! I mean, not great, but … well, you know. Anyway, let’s get out of the rain.’
The passenger cabin was a glassed-in section below the wheelhouse. Outside it, Fraser was talking heatedly to a bearded man in oilskins. Behind him a tall teenage boy, face rippled with acne, looked on sullenly as Fraser jabbed the air with a finger.
‘… waited long enough as it is, and now you’re saying you’re not ready to go?’
The bearded man stared back impassively. ‘There’s another passenger. We’re not leaving till she’s arrived.’
Fraser’s already red face had darkened still further. ‘This isn’t a bloody pleasure cruise. We’re already behind schedule, so get that ramp pulled up, OK?’
The other man’s eyes stared out above the dark beard, giving him the feral look of a wild animal. ‘This is my boat, and I set the schedules. So if you want it pulling up, you’ll have to do it yourself.’
Fraser drew himself up to assert himself when there was a clattering from the ramp. A diminutive young woman was hurrying up, struggling under the weight of a heavy-looking bag. She wore a bright red, down-filled coat that looked at least two sizes too big for her. A thick woollen hat was pulled down over her ears. With her sandy hair and pointed chin, it gave her an appealing, elfin appearance.
‘Hi, gents. Anyone care to give me a hand here?’ she panted.
Duncan had started forward but the bearded man beat him to it. He grinned at the new arrival, white teeth gleaming in the dark beard as he effortlessly took the bag from her.
‘About time you showed up, Maggie. We were about to go without you.’
‘Good job you didn’t, or my gran would have killed you.’ She stood with her hands on her hips, regarding them as she caught her breath. ‘Hi, Kevin, how’s it going? Your dad here still working you too hard?’
The teenager blushed and looked down. ‘Aye.’
‘Aye, some things never change. Now you’re eighteen, you’ll have to put in for a pay rise.’
I saw a spark of interest kindle in her eyes as she eyed the police Range Rover.
‘So what’s going on? Something happened I should know about?’
The bearded man jerked his head dismissively towards us. ‘Try asking them. They won’t tell us anything about it.’
The young woman’s grin faltered when she saw Fraser. Then she recovered, quickly mustering a smile that now held something like defiance.
‘Hello, Sergeant Fraser. This is a surprise. What takes you out to Runa?’
‘Police business,’ Fraser said, flatly, and turned away. Whoever the young woman was, he wasn’t pleased to see her.
The ferry captain and his son busied themselves now the late arrival was on board. There was a motorized whine as the ramp was winched up, and the wooden structure of the boat vibrated as the anchor chain was ratcheted into place. With a last, curious glance in my direction, the young woman went into the wheelhouse.
Then, with a belch of diesel, the ferry cast off and chugged out of the harbour.
The sea was rough, and what should have been a two-hour crossing took almost three. Once we’d left the protection of Stornoway harbour, the Atlantic lived up to its reputation. It was a turbulent grey plain of angry waves, into which the ferry smacked head on. Each time it would rear up over the crests, then slide sickeningly down the far side before beginning the process again.
The only shelter was in the cramped passenger cabin, where diesel fumes and burning hot radiators made an uncomfortable combination. Fraser and Duncan sat for the most part in miserable silence. I’d tried to draw out Fraser about the body, but he obviously knew little more than I did.
‘Just a meat job,’ he grunted, sweat beading his forehead. ‘Some drunk fell asleep too close to his campfire, most likely.’
‘Wallace told me a retired DI had found it. Who is he?’
‘That’s Andrew Brody,’ Duncan piped up. ‘My dad used to work with him on the mainland, before we moved to Stornoway. Said he was a damn good police officer.’
‘Aye, “was”,’ Fraser said. ‘I was asking about him before we came out. Too much of a loner for his own good, apparently. Didn’t like being a team player. I heard he lost it completely after his wife and daughter ran off; that’s why he retired.’
Duncan looked embarrassed. ‘It was stress, my dad said.’
Fraser waved away the distinction. ‘Same thing. Just so long as he remembers he’s not a DI any more.’ He stiffened as the boat suddenly shuddered and yawed over another mountainous swell.
‘Christ, of all the bloody places to get sent to …’
I stayed in the cabin for a while, wondering what I was doing on a small ferry in the Atlantic instead of on my way home to Jenny. We’d been arguing more and more lately, and always over the same thing – my work. This wasn’t going to help, and with nothing to occupy me I found myself fretting over whether I’d made the right decision, and how I could make it up to her.
Eventually, I left the policemen and went on deck. The wind blustered against me, peppering my face with rain, but it was a relief after the sour, overheated cabin. I stood in the bow, welcoming the spray on my face. The island was visible now, a dark mass rising from the sea as the ferry chugged towards it. Staring at it, I felt the familiar tightening in my gut, part nerves, part anticipation of what was waiting there.
Whatever it was, I hoped it was worth it.
A flash of red caught the corner of my eye, and I turned to see the young woman unsteadily making her way across the deck towards me. A sudden dip sent her running the last few steps, and I put out my arm to steady her.
‘Thanks.’
She gave me a gamine smile as she joined me at the rail. ‘It’s a rough one. Iain says it’s going to be fun trying to dock in this.’
Her accent was a softer, more lilting version of Fraser’s. ‘Iain?’
‘Iain Kinross, the skipper. He’s an old neighbour, from Runa.’
‘Is that where you live?’
‘Not any more. My family moved to Stornoway, except for my gran. We take it in turns to visit her. So you’re here with the police, then?’
She asked the question with an innocence I didn’t entirely trust. ‘More or less.’
‘But you’re not one yourself? A policeman, I mean?’
I shook my head.
She grinned. ‘Thought not. Iain said he heard them call you Doctor. Is there someone injured out here, or what?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
I could see that only piqued her curiosity even more.
‘So what’s a doctor doing coming out to Runa with the police?’
‘You’d better ask Sergeant Fraser.’
She grimaced. ‘Aye, that’ll happen.’
‘You know each other?’
‘Sort of.’ She didn’t enlarge.
‘So what do you do on Stornoway?’ I asked.
‘Oh … I’m a writer. I’m working on a novel. I’m Maggie Cassidy, by the way.’
‘David Hunter.’
She seemed to file the information away. We were silent for a while, watching the island gradually take form in the fading light: grey cliffs rising from the sea, topped with featureless green. A tall sea stack, a natural tower of black rock, thrust up from the waves in front of its cliffs.
‘Nearly there,’ Maggie said. ‘The harbour’s just behind Stac Ross, that big rock thingy. Supposed to be the third highest in Scotland. Typical Runa. Its only claim to fame is being third best.’
She stood up from the railing.
‘Well, nice meeting you, David. Perhaps see you again before you go.’
She made her way back across the deck to rejoin Kinross and his son in the wheelhouse. I noticed that she seemed much steadier on her feet than she had when she’d come out.
I turned my attention back to the island we were approaching. Beyond Stac Ross, the cliffs fell back into a small harbour. The light was already starting to fade, but I could see a scattering of houses spreading out around it, a small outpost of habitation in the ocean’s wilderness.
A sharp whistle came from behind me, carrying even above the wind and the sound of the engine. I turned to see Kinross gesturing angrily.
‘Get inside!’
I didn’t need to be told twice. The sea was becoming more violent as the waves were funnelled in between the tall cliffs that bracketed the harbour. Now there was no up and down roll, only a nauseating corkscrew motion as the swells jostled each other, sending sheets of spray across the deck.
Grabbing at handholds to steady myself, I made my way back to the overheated cabin. I waited with Duncan and a pale-faced Fraser as the ferry manoeuvred into the harbour, juddering against the impact of the waves. Through the cabin’s window I could see them smashing against the concrete jetty, throwing up white clouds of spume. It took three attempts to dock, the entire boat vibrating as the engine revved to hold us in place.
We left the cabin, walking with difficulty on the swaying deck. There was no cover from the wind, but the cold air was wonderfully fresh, with a clean saline tang. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead, while on the jetty men were scurrying about, securing ropes and rubber fenders. Despite the cliffs, the harbour was fully open to the sea, with only a single breakwater jutting out to blunt the force of the waves. A few fishing boats were anchored here, jerking against their moorings like dogs straining at the leash.
Low houses and cottages clung barnacle-like to the steep hillside that dropped down to the harbour. The landscape that spread out behind them was a treeless green vista, windswept and bleak. In the distance, the skyline was dominated by a brooding peak, its tip lost in the mist of low clouds.
The young woman who’d introduced herself as Maggie Cassidy hurried off the ferry as soon as the ramp was lowered. I was a little surprised she didn’t say goodbye, but didn’t give it much thought. Behind me the Range Rover’s engine started up, and I turned to climb into the back. I noticed that Fraser let the young PC drive. The boat was still see-sawing on the swells, and he eased it carefully down the undulating ramp.
A craggy-faced man was waiting for us on the jetty. He was mid-fifties, tall and powerfully built, with the indefinable look of a policeman. I didn’t need to be told that this was the retired detective inspector who had found the body.
Fraser wound down the window. ‘Andrew Brody?’
The man gave a short nod. The wind ruffled his grey hair as he looked at the three of us inside the car. Behind him, the locals who had helped moor the boat watched curiously.
‘This all of you?’ he asked, his disapproval obvious.
Fraser gave a stiff nod. ‘Aye, for now.’
‘What about SOC? When are they coming out?’
‘We don’t know they are yet,’ Fraser retorted. ‘That decision’s not been taken.’
Brody’s mouth tightened at his tone. Retired or not, the ex-DI didn’t like being talked down to by a mere police sergeant.
‘Then what about CID? They’ll have to attend, regardless.’
‘A DC’s going to follow on from Stornoway after Dr Hunter here has taken a look at the body. He’s a forensic expert.’
Until now Brody hadn’t paid me any attention. Now he looked at me with more interest. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, and I felt in that brief moment I’d been assessed and judged.
‘There’s not much light left,’ he said, glancing at the darkening sky. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes’ drive, but it’ll be dark by the time we get out there. Perhaps you’d like to ride with me, Dr Hunter. I can brief you on the way.’
Fraser bridled. ‘I’m sure he’s seen burned bodies before.’
Brody regarded him for a moment, as though reminding himself he no longer held rank. Then he turned his steady gaze back to me.
‘Not like this.’
His car was parked on the quayside, a newish-looking Volvo saloon. The inside was spotless. It smelled of air freshener and, more faintly, of cigarettes. An old border collie was on a blanket in the back, black muzzle greyed with age. It stood up excitedly when Brody got into the car.
‘Down, Bess,’ he said, mildly. The dog immediately settled. Brody frowned as he examined the dashboard controls for the heater. ‘Sorry, not had it long. Still trying to work out where everything is.’
The headlights of the Range Rover told us Fraser and Duncan were following as we drove out of the harbour. The days didn’t last long this far north at this time of year, and dusk was already giving way to darkness. The street lights were on, illuminating a narrow main road barely deserving of the name. It ran up from the seafront through the village: a handful of small shops surrounded by a mix of old stone cottages and newer bungalows that had a temporary, prefabricated look.
Even from the little I could see of it, it was apparent that Runa wasn’t the backwater I’d expected. The ruins of a small, roofless church stood by the roadside. But most of the doors and windows in the houses we passed looked new, as though they’d recently been replaced. There was a small but modern school, and a little further out the timber structure of the community hall boasted a new extension that bore a sign saying Runa Medical Clinic.
Even the road itself had been resurfaced. It was only narrow, not much more than a single lane with semicircular passing places every hundred metres or so, but the smooth black tarmac would have put most mainland roads to shame. It climbed steeply through the village, then levelled out as we passed the last few houses. On a hilltop overlooking them, silhouetted against the darkening sky, was a tall and crooked standing stone, rising from the grass like an accusing finger.
‘That’s Bodach Runa,’ said Brody, seeing where I was looking. ‘The Old Man of Runa. Legend is he went out there to watch for the return of his son, who’d gone to sea. But the son never came back, and the old man stood there so long he turned to stone.’
‘In this weather I can believe it.’
He smiled, but it quickly died. After wanting me to ride with him, he now seemed uncomfortable, as though he was unsure where to start. I took out my mobile to check for messages.
‘You’ll not get a signal out here,’ Brody warned. ‘If you want to call out you’ll have to use either a landline or a police radio. And if we get a good blow even they don’t always work.’
I put my phone away. I’d half hoped Jenny might have left a message, though I didn’t really expect it. I’d call her from a landline later and try to smooth things between us.
‘So what sort of “forensic expert” are you?’ Brody asked.
‘I’m a forensic anthropologist.’
I glanced at him to see if I needed to explain. Even police officers sometimes had trouble with what I did. But Brody seemed satisfied.
‘Good. At least we’ll have one person out here who knows what he’s doing. How much did Wallace tell you?’
‘Just that it was a fire death, and that there was something odd about it. He wouldn’t say what, except that it wasn’t suspicious.’
His jaw set in disapproval. ‘Did he now?’
‘Why, are you saying there is?’
‘I’m not saying anything,’ Brody said. ‘You can make your own mind up when you see it. I just expected that Wallace would have sent a full team over, that’s all.’
I was starting to have a bad feeling about this. There were strict protocols to be followed if a death was suspicious, and normally I wouldn’t get involved until a Scene of Crime team had processed the site. I hoped Wallace hadn’t let his pre-occupation with the train crash cloud his judgement.
But I also remembered what he’d said about Brody. Used to be a good man. Retired police officers often found it hard being out of the loop. Brody wouldn’t be the first to exaggerate in order to feel in the thick of things again. I didn’t put much credence in Fraser’s gossip about his crack-up, but I wondered if similar doubts hadn’t coloured Wallace’s decision.
‘All he wants me to do is take a look,’ I said. ‘If I see anything that suggests it might not be accidental, then I’ll back off until SOC gets out here.’
‘That’ll have to do, I suppose,’ Brody said, grudgingly.
But he still wasn’t happy. Whatever he’d told Wallace, the superintendent clearly hadn’t accepted it at face value, and for a one-time detective inspector that was bound to rankle.
‘How did you find the body?’ I asked.
‘The dog caught the scent when I was taking her out for a walk this morning. It’s in an abandoned crofter’s cottage – a croft’s a small farm,’ he added, for my benefit. ‘You sometimes get kids going out there, but not usually in winter. And before you ask, no, I didn’t touch anything. I might be retired, but I know better than that.’
I didn’t doubt it. ‘Any idea who it might be?’
‘Not a clue. Far as I know no one from the island’s been reported missing. And there’s less than two hundred people live out here, so it’d be hard for anyone to disappear without its being noticed.’
‘Do you get many visitors from the mainland or other islands?’
‘Not many, but some. The odd naturalist or archaeologist. All the islands are peppered with ruins: stone age, bronze age and God knows what. There are supposed to be burial cairns and an old watchtower on the mountain. And there’s been quite a lot of renovation work going on, so we’ve had builders and contractors coming out. Road resurfacing, houses being done up, that sort of thing. But not since the weather turned.’
‘Who else knows about the body?’
‘No one as far as I’m aware. The only person I told was Wallace.’
That explained the curious looks of the locals when the police had arrived. Their presence would be big news on an island as small as this. I doubted the reason we were here would remain a secret for long, but at least for the moment we didn’t have to worry about sightseers.
‘He said it was badly burned.’
Brody gave a grim smile. ‘Oh, it’s badly burned all right. But I think you’d better see for yourself.’
He said it with both confidence and finality, closing the subject.
‘Wallace told me you used to work with him.’
‘I did a stint at HQ in Inverness. You know it?’
‘I’ve only travelled through. Runa must have been quite a change after that.’
‘Aye, but for the better. It’s a good place to live. Quiet. There’s time and space to think.’
‘Are you from here originally?’
‘God, no. I’m an “incomer”,’ he said. ‘Wanted to get away from it all when I took early retirement. And it doesn’t get much further away than this.’
There was no disputing that. Once we had left the harbour village, there was hardly any sign of life. The only habitation we’d passed was an imposing old house, set well back from the road. Other than that there had been only the occasional ruined bothy, and sheep. In the gathering twilight, Runa looked beautiful, but desolate.
It would be a lonely place to die.
There was a jolt as Brody turned off the road and bumped down an overgrown track. Ahead of us, the car’s headlights picked out a crumbling old cottage. Wallace had said the body had been found at a croft, but there was little left to show this must once have been a working farm. Brody pulled up outside and turned off the engine.
‘Stay, Bess,’ he ordered the border collie.
We climbed out of the car as the Range Rover drew up behind us on the track. The cottage was a squat, single-storey building that was slowly being reclaimed by nature. Looming up behind it was the peak I’d seen earlier, now only a black shape in the encroaching darkness.
‘That’s Beinn Tuiridh,’ Brody told me. ‘It’s what passes for a mountain out here. They say if you climb to the top on a clear day you can see all the way to Scotland.’
‘Can you?’
‘Never met anyone stupid enough to find out.’
He took a Maglite from his glove compartment, and we waited outside the car for Fraser and Duncan to join us. I collected my own torch from the flight case in the Range Rover, then we made our way towards the cottage, torch beams bouncing and criss-crossing in the darkness. It was little more than a stone shack, its walls furred with moss and lichen. The doorway was so low I had to stoop to go inside.
I paused and shone my torch around. The place was obviously long abandoned, a derelict remnant of forgotten lives. Water dripped from a hole in the roof, and the room we were in was cramped, a low ceiling added to the claustrophobic feel. We were in what had once been a kitchen. There was an old range, a dusty cast-iron pan still standing on one of its cold plates. A rickety wooden table stood in the middle of the stone-flagged floor. A few cans and bottles were scattered on the floor, evidence that the place hadn’t been entirely untenanted. It had the musty smell of age and damp, but nothing else. For a fire death there seemed remarkably little signs of any fire.
‘Through there,’ Brody said, shining his torch on another doorway.
As I approached it I caught the first faint, sooty whiff of combustion. But it was nothing like as strong as I would have expected. The door was broken, its rusted hinges protesting as it was pushed open. Watching my step, I went through into the other room. It was even more depressing than the ruined kitchen. The stink of fire was unmistakable now. The torchlight showed ancient, crumbling plaster on the bare walls, in one of which was the gaping mouth of a fireplace. But the smell didn’t come from that. Its source was in the centre of the room, and as I shone my torch on it my breath caught in my throat.
There was precious little left of what had once been a living person. No wonder Brody had looked as he did when I’d asked if it was badly burned. It was that all right. Even the white heat of a crematorium isn’t enough to reduce a human body to ash, yet this fire had somehow done just that.
An untidy pile of greasy ash and cinders lay on the floor. The fire had consumed bone as readily as it had skin and tissue. Only the larger bones remained, emerging from the ash like dead branches from a snowdrift. Even these had been calcined, the carbon burned from them until they were grey and brittle. Presiding over them all like a broken eggshell was a skull, lying with its jawbone canted off to one side.
And yet, apart from the body, nothing else in the room had been damaged. The fire that had all but incinerated a human being, reduced its bones to the consistency of pumice, had somehow done so without burning anything else nearby. The stone flags below the remains were blackened, but a few feet away a tattered and filthy mattress lay untouched. Old leaves and twigs littered the ground, yet the flames had rejected even these.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. What had shocked me to silence was the sight of two unburned feet and a single hand protruding from the ashes. The bones jutting from them were scorched to black sticks, yet they were completely unmarked.
Brody came and stood beside me.
‘Well, Dr Hunter? Still think there’s nothing suspicious about it?’
THE WIND MOANED fitfully outside the old cottage, an eerie background music to the macabre scene before us. From the doorway, I was aware of Duncan’s indrawn breath as he and Fraser saw what was lying on the floor.
But I was getting over the shock now, already beginning to assess what I was seeing.
‘Is there any chance of getting some more light in here?’ I asked.
‘We’ve got a portable floodlight in the car,’ Fraser said, tearing his eyes from the pile of bone and ashes. He was trying to sound blasé but the attempt wasn’t entirely convincing. ‘Go and get it, Duncan. Duncan.’
The young PC was still staring at what was left of the body. The blood had left his face.
‘You OK?’ I asked. My concern wasn’t entirely for his sake. I’d worked on more than one body recovery where a green police officer had vomited on the remains. It didn’t make anyone’s job any easier.
He nodded. His colour was starting to come back. ‘Aye. Sorry.’
He hurried out. Brody regarded the remains.
‘I told Wallace it was a strange one, but I don’t think he believed me. Dare say he thought I’d gone soft after a few years off the job.’
He was probably right, I thought, remembering the doubts I’d harboured myself only a few minutes before. But I couldn’t blame Wallace for being sceptical. What I was looking at was freakish enough to flout all apparent logic. If I hadn’t seen it for myself I might have thought the report was exaggerated.
The body – what was left of it – was lying face down. Without going any closer, I played my torch on the unburned limbs. The feet were intact from just above the ankle, and what made the sight even more disturbing was that both were still wearing trainers. I moved the torch beam higher, until it shone on the hand. It was the right one, and could have belonged to either a small man or a large woman. There were no rings, and the fingernails were unvarnished and bitten. The radius and ulna protruded from the exposed tissue of the wrist, their bone burned a dark amber close to the flesh and quickly becoming blackened and crazed with heat fractures after that. Just before where they should have joined the elbow, both had burned right through.
It was the same with the feet. The charred shafts of the tibia and fibula emerged from each as if the flames had eaten away everything up to this point, then came to an abrupt halt where the fire had burned them away halfway up the shin.
But other than that the surviving limbs showed little evidence of the fire that had destroyed the rest of the body. The main damage was caused by rodents or other small animals gnawing at the flesh and unburned bone. What soft tissue remained was starting to decompose normally, a marbling effect evident beneath the darkened skin. There was virtually no insect activity – often a vital indicator of how long decomposition has been under way. But given the cold, wintry conditions that was only what I’d expect. Flies need heat and light.
I shone the torch around the room. The remains of a fire lay in the hearth, and at some point a smaller one had been lit on the flagged floor. It was a good six feet from where the body lay, but that didn’t signify anything. Unless they were unconscious, no one remained still when they caught fire.
I turned the torch beam on to the ceiling. Directly above the body the cracked plaster was smoke-blackened, but not burned. An oily, brownish deposit coated it. The same fatty residue was also on the floor around the remains.
‘What’s all that brown stuff?’ Fraser asked.
‘It’s fat. From the body, as it burned.’
He grimaced. ‘Bit like you get with a chip-pan fire, eh?’
‘Something like that.’
Duncan had returned with the floodlight. He stared wide-eyed at the skeletal remains as he set it on the floor.
‘I’ve read about this sort of thing,’ he blurted. He immediately looked embarrassed as we all stared at him. ‘Where people burst into flames for no reason, I mean. Without burning anything else around them.’
‘Stop talking rubbish,’ Fraser snapped.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, turning to Duncan. ‘You’re talking about spontaneous combustion.’
He nodded eagerly. ‘Aye, that’s it!’
I’d been expecting this ever since I’d seen the remains. Spontaneous human combustion was generally thought of in the same terms as yeti and UFOs; a paranormal phenomenon for which there was no real explanation. Yet there were well-documented cases where individuals had been found incinerated in a room otherwise untouched by fire, often with hands or lower legs partially intact amongst the ashes. A whole range of theories had been put forward to explain it, from demonic possession to microwaves. But the popular consensus was that, whatever its cause, it had to be something inexplicable to known science.
I didn’t believe it for a moment.
Fraser was scowling at Duncan. ‘What the hell do you know about it?’
Duncan gave me a sheepish glance. ‘I’ve seen photographs. There was one woman who was burned up, just like this. All that was left was one of her legs, with the shoe still on. They call her the cinder woman.’
‘Her name was Mary Reeser,’ I told him. ‘She was an elderly widow in Florida back in the 1950s. There was almost nothing left of her except for one leg from the shin down, and the foot still had a slipper on it. The armchair she was sitting on was destroyed, and a nearby table and lamp, but nothing else in the room was damaged. Is that the one?’
Duncan looked taken aback. ‘Aye. And I’ve read about others.’
‘They crop up now and again,’ I agreed. ‘But people don’t just burst into flames for no reason. And whatever happened to this woman, there was nothing supernatural or paranormal about it.’
Brody had been watching us during the exchange, listening without joining in. Now he spoke up.
‘How do you know it’s a woman?’
Retired or not, Brody didn’t miss much. ‘Because of the skeleton.’ I shone the torch on to what was left of the pelvis, obscured by ash but still visible. ‘Even from what’s left, the hipbone’s obviously too wide for a man’s. And the head of the humerus – that’s the ball where the upper armbone fits into the shoulder – is too small. Whoever this was, she was big-boned but definitely female.’
‘Like I said, I can’t see it being anyone local,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we’d have noticed if anyone had gone missing. Any idea how long the body might have been here?’
It was a good question. While some things can be gleaned from even the most badly burned remains, an accurate time since death isn’t usually one of them. For that you need to trace the extent of decomposition in muscle proteins, amino and volatile fatty acids, all of which are normally destroyed by fire. But the freakish condition of this body meant there was enough soft tissue to run tests that weren’t possible for most fire deaths. That would have to wait till I was back in a lab, but in the meantime I could make an educated guess.
‘The cold weather will have slowed the rate of decay,’ I told him. ‘But the feet and hand have started to decompose, so death can’t have been too recent. Assuming the body’s been here all the time and not moved from somewhere else – and given the way the flagstones underneath it are scorched I’d say that’s likely – I’d guess we’re looking at around four or five weeks.’
‘The contractors had all finished work long before then,’ Brody mused. ‘Can’t be anyone who came out with them.’
Fraser had been listening with mounting irritation, not liking the way the former DI was taking over. ‘Aye, well, if it’s nobody local I dare say we’ll be able to find out who it is from the ferry’s passenger list. There can’t have been many visitors at this time of year.’
Brody smiled. ‘Did it strike you as the sort of service that keeps records? Besides, there are a dozen or so other boats that shuttle between Runa and Stornoway. No one keeps track of who comes and goes.’
He turned to me, dismissing the police sergeant. ‘So what now? I assume you’ll tell Wallace to send out a SOC team?’
Fraser butted in angrily before I could answer. ‘We’re not doing anything until Dr Hunter’s finished what he came to do. For all we know this was probably just some wino who got drunk and fell asleep too close to the campfire.’
Brody’s expression was unreadable. ‘So what was she doing on Runa in the middle of winter in the first place?’
Fraser shrugged. ‘Could have friends or relatives here. Or could be one of those new-age types, wanting to get back to nature or whatever it is they do. You get them on islands even more remote than this.’
Brody shone his torch on to the skull. It lay face down, tilted slightly to one side amongst the ashes, the back of its once smooth crown marred by a gaping hole.
‘You think she might have smashed in her own head as well?’
I intervened before tempers frayed still more. ‘Actually, the skull often shatters in a hot fire like this. It’s basically a sealed container of fluid and jelly, so when it’s heated it acts like a pressure cooker. You get a build-up of gas that eventually makes it explode.’
Fraser blanched. ‘Christ.’
‘So you still think it could be accidental?’ Brody asked, dubiously.