Simon Beckett
her was her son. She ’d just taken sleeping tablets, and was sitting in the armchair in her nightgown—both of which would have acted as wicks—smoking a cigarette.’
Duncan pondered that for a moment. ‘Aye, but why wasn’t anything else damaged by the fire? And why didn’t all the body burn up?’
‘Because even when there ’s a lot of body fat to act as fuel, human tissue doesn’t burn particularly hotly. You get a slow-burning fire that ’s intense enough to consume the body, but not ignite anything else. Again, think of a candle—it melts as the wick burns, but doesn’t damage whatever’s nearby. As for why the hands and feet sometimes survive . . .’
I held out my hand, pulling back my sleeve to expose my wrist.
‘They’re mainly skin and bone. There ’s hardly any fat on them. And they’re generally not covered by fabric like the torso, so there ’s nothing to act as a wick. Hands sometimes get burned just because they’re near the body, unless the arms are outflung. But the feet and sometimes the shins are often far enough removed from the fire to survive. Like they were here. She was lying on one hand, so it got burned along with the rest. But the other hand, and her feet, survived.’
Brody rubbed his chin thoughtfully, hand rasping on the whiskers that were already showing through. ‘You think this “wick effect” was intentional? That somebody did it deliberately?’
‘I doubt it. It ’s not something you can easily stage. I’ve never even heard of it happening in a murder before. All the recorded incidents have been with accidental deaths, which was another reason I was slow to chalk this one up as suspicious. No, I think whoever did this probably just wanted to destroy any incriminating evidence they might have left on the body. I’d guess he used a small amount of petrol or some other accelerant to start the fire—not much or the ceiling in the cottage would have been more scorched than it was—
then dropped a match on to the body and got out.’
The furrows on Brody’s forehead had deepened. ‘Why didn’t the killer torch the entire cottage?’
WRITTEN IN BONE
127
‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps he was worried that might attract too much attention. Or he hoped it would look more like an accident this way.’
They were silent as they considered that. Finally Duncan spoke.
‘Was she dead?’
I’d spent time wondering about that myself. There had been no sign that the woman had moved around after she was set on fire, no evidence of her trying to put out the flames. The blow that had cracked her skull would at the very least have left her unconscious, and perhaps even comatose. But dead?
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
The walls of the clinic shook under the gale ’s onslaught. Somehow the sound seemed only to heighten the silence after they’d gone. I pulled on one of my last remaining pairs of surgical gloves. There was an almost full box of them in one of the cupboards, but I didn’t want to use them unless I had to. Cameron was tetchy enough without my helping myself to his supplies. There wasn’t much I could do without proper facilities, but now that Wallace had given me permission to examine the remains we ’d salvaged there was one thing I wanted to try.
Brody had put his finger on it when he ’d said the inquiry was hamstrung until the victim had been identified. Once we knew who she was, it might throw light on who had killed her. Without that information, trying to find her killer would be like groping in the dark. I hoped I might be able to do something about that. Taking the skull from its evidence bag, I gently set it on the stainless steel trolley. Blackened and cracked, it lay canted on the cold surface. The empty eye sockets gaped blankly into eternity. I wondered what the eyes they’d once held had looked on not so very long ago. A lover? A husband? A friend? How often had she laughed, unknowing, as the seconds ticked away the last days and hours of her existence? And what had she seen when that realization, finally and irrevocably, made itself known to her?
Whoever she was, I felt an odd sense of intimacy towards her. I 128
Simon Beckett
knew almost nothing about her life, but her death had pulled me into her orbit. I had seen her history written in her charred bones, noted each year’s passing in every bump and scar. She had been laid bare in a way even those who had known her would have never recognized. I tried to remember if I used to feel like this in the past, on the cases I’d worked before Kara and Alice had been killed. I didn’t think so. That seemed an age away now, part of a different life. A different David Hunter. Somewhere along the line, and perhaps due to my own loss, I seemed to have lost the detachment I’d once had. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but the truth was I no longer saw the dead woman as an anonymous victim. That was why she ’d visited me in my dream, waited expectantly at the foot of my bed. I felt a responsibility towards her. It wasn’t something I’d anticipated, or even wanted.
But I couldn’t turn away from it.
‘OK, tell me who you are,’ I said, quietly.
CH APTER 13
FOR A FORENSIC anthropologist, teeth are a repository of information. They’re an enduring bone interface, a bridge between the hidden skeleton and the world beyond the body. As well as revealing race and age, they form a record of an individual’s life. Our diet, habits, class, even our self-esteem, can all be gleaned from these chunks of calcium and enamel. I took the lower jawbone from its evidence bag and laid it on the stainless steel trolley beside the broken cranium. It was as light and fragile as balsa. Under the bright halogen light, the disparate sections of the skull looked like an anatomical pastiche, far removed from anything that had once been alive. At some point I would have to finish the job I’d tentatively started in the cottage, and piece together the shattered skull fragments I’d managed to salvage. But right now what I needed to do was try to put a face and name to the victim’s burned remains. With luck, her teeth might be the key to that. Not that I was overly optimistic. While a few back molars 130
Simon Beckett
remained stubbornly in place in the jawbones, most of the teeth had fallen out when the fire had first burned away the gums, then desiccated the roots. Grey and cracked by the heat, the ones I’d managed to snatch up before the cottage roof collapsed looked like fossilised remnants of something long dead.
I’d found that, even with my arm in the sling, I could still use my left hand to hold or support things. It made life a little easier as I spread a sheet of paper on the table and began arranging the teeth on it in two parallel rows, one for the upper jaw, one for lower. One by one, I laid them out in the order they would have been in the mouth, with the two central incisors in the middle, the lateral incisors next to them, followed by the canines, premolars and then the large molars themselves. It wasn’t a straightforward task. As well as damage from the fire, the woman’s teeth were so badly eroded it was difficult to determine whether some of them were from the upper or lower jaw, or even what type of tooth they actually were.
Everything outside the clinic ceased to exist as I worked. The world shrank down to the circle of light from the halogen lamp. I took more photographs and sketched out a post-mortem odontogram: a dental chart detailing each crack, cavity or filling in every tooth. Under normal circumstances I would have taken X-rays of the teeth and jaws so that they could be compared with dental records of potential victims. That wasn’t an option now, so I did the only thing I could.
I began to fit the teeth back into the empty sockets. Even using my left hand as much as the sling allowed, it was slow work. I’d lost track of how much time had passed when the lamp suddenly flickered. As though synchronised, a gust of wind rattled against the building, thrumming its structure like a bass note felt rather than heard.
I straightened, groaning as my back muscles protested. God, I ached all over. As though it had only been waiting for me to take notice of it, my shoulder started throbbing. The wall clock told me it was almost five o’clock. It had grown dark outside, I saw. Mass
aging my back, I looked at the skull and jawbone as they lay on the steel
WRITTEN IN BONE
131
trolley. After a few false starts, I’d fitted most of the teeth back into them. There were only a couple of molars and premolars left, and they wouldn’t affect what I had in mind. I was reaching out to turn off the lamp when I heard a noise from the community centre. The creak of a floorboard.
‘Hello?’ I called.
My voice echoed in the cold air. I waited, but there was no answer. I went to the door and took hold of the handle. But I didn’t turn it.
Suddenly, I felt certain someone was on the other side. The clinic seemed unnaturally quiet. The door into the community centre had a round window set in it, like a porthole. There was a Venetian blind on my side, but I hadn’t bothered to lower it. Now I wished I had. The hall beyond was in darkness. Anyone in there would be able to see into the clinic, but on my side the window was a circle of impenetrable black. I listened, hearing only the wind rushing outside. The silence was like a solid weight, poised ready to break.
I felt the back of my neck prickle. I looked down at my hand, saw the hairs standing up on it.
This is stupid. There’s nothing there. I tightened my grip on the door handle, but still didn’t turn it. There was a heavy glass paperweight on the desk. I picked it up, holding it awkwardly as I stooped down to take hold of the door handle with my strapped hand. Ready . . .
I threw open the door and pawed for the light switch. I couldn’t find it, but then there was a click and the lights came on. The empty hall mocked me. I lowered the paperweight. The doors to the hall, and the glassed-in entrance porch beyond it, were closed. The noise must have been the building creaking in the wind. You’re turning into a nervous wreck. I was about to go back into the clinic when I looked down at the floor.
Tracking across it was a trail of wet footprints.
*
*
*
132
Simon Beckett
‘You’re sure you didn’t make them?’
Brody was considering the slowly drying puddles on the worn floorboards. The water had run too much to gauge what size shoe or boot had made them, but their path was clear enough. They ran from the community centre entrance across to the clinic door, stopping in front of the glass porthole. A pool had formed below it, where someone had stood while they’d watched me.
‘Certain. I hadn’t been outside since I arrived,’ I told him. Brody and Duncan had arrived while I’d still been debating what to do about the tracks, the young PC looking fresh-faced after a shave and a shower. Now Brody followed the trail to where it had pooled in front of the clinic door. He stared through the glass panel.
‘Somebody got a good look at what you were doing.’
‘Cameron, perhaps? Or Maggie Cassidy?’
‘It ’s possible, but I can’t see it. And I don’t think any of the locals would sneak in like this, either.’
‘You think it was the killer?’
Brody nodded slowly. ‘I think it ’s something we have to consider. Bringing the remains here is bound to rattle him, let alone having a forensic expert examining them. What worries me is what he might decide to do about it.’
It wasn’t a comforting thought. Brody let it hang there for a few seconds.
‘I think I’ll feel happier if we could lock the community centre tonight anyway,’ he went on. ‘The general store sells chain and padlocks. We could get something from there to make this place a bit more secure, at least. Can’t see any point in taking chances.’
Neither could I, when he put it like that. Businesslike again, Brody nodded towards where the skull was lying on the steel table.
‘Intruders aside, how have you been getting on?’
‘Slowly. I’ve been trying to find some clue as to who she is.’
‘Can you do that from what ’s left?’ Brody asked, surprised.
‘I don’t know. But I can try.’
I went over to where the cranium lay on the trolley, switching on the halogen lamp as Brody and Duncan came to look.
WRITTEN IN BONE
133
‘The condition of her teeth is interesting. They’ve been cracked by the heat, but they were pretty rotten to begin with. Hardly any of them have fillings, and those that are there are all quite old. She obviously hadn’t been to a dentist for years, which suggests she was probably from a deprived social background. You’re more likely to look after your teeth if you’re middle class. And her teeth weren’t just bad; some of them were almost eroded down to the gum. In someone this young, that’s a strong sign of heavy drug use.’
‘You think she was an addict?’ Brody asked.
‘I’d say so.’
Duncan looked up. ‘I thought most addicts were skinny. Didn’t you say this wick effect meant she was overweight?’
It was an astute comment. ‘She probably had more body fat than average, yes. But a lot depends on metabolism and how heavily she was using. It doesn’t mean she didn’t have a drug habit. But there ’s something else as well. Do you remember why I said her feet hadn’t burned?’
‘Not enough flesh on them?’ Duncan offered.
‘And no fabric to act as a wick. She had on training shoes, but no stockings or tights. Or socks, come to that. I’d guess she was wearing something like a skirt and jacket or a short coat. Cheap flammable fabric, probably, that would make a good wick.’
I looked at the remains of the skull, saddened by the brutal way we were dissecting a life. But it was the only way we would catch whoever had done this to her.
‘So we ’ve got a young woman who was a serious drug user, who’d let herself go enough for her teeth to rot, and who was skimpily dressed and bare-legged in February,’ I went on. ‘What does that suggest to you about her lifestyle?’
‘She was a prostitute,’ Duncan said, this time with more conviction. Brody rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Only one reason a working girl would have come all the way out here.’
‘You mean to see a client?’ I said.
‘I’m hard pushed to think of another reason. Ties in with what we 134
Simon Beckett
already thought about her knowing her killer. And it ’d explain why no one seems to have known she was on the island. Men who pay for sex don’t usually advertise the fact.’
But something about that didn’t seem quite right to me. ‘Even so, it ’s a hell of a long way for a home visit. And why risk bringing a prostitute out to Runa if you were worried about people finding out? It’d make more sense to go to her rather than bring her out here.’
Brody looked thoughtful. ‘There ’s another possibility. She wouldn’t be the first prostitute to try and blackmail a client. Given her drug habit, she might have thought it was worth the trip if there was money to be made out of it.’
It was a plausible theory. Blackmail was a strong enough motive for murder, and it fitted the facts we had so far. Not that there were many of them.
‘You could be right,’ I said, too tired to try to make sense of it any more. ‘But we ’re just guessing. We don’t really know enough to speculate at this stage.’
‘Aye, you’re right,’ Brody agreed heavily. ‘But I’ll lay odds that when we find out who she came out here to see—and why—we ’ll have found her killer.’
Looking at the wet footprints drying on the floor, I wondered if the killer hadn’t already found us.
Brody volunteered to stay at the clinic while I went back to the hotel for something to eat, and bought a padlock and chain from the village store.
‘You need a break. You look all in,’ he said, moving a chair in front of the door and settling down.
I certainly felt it. My shoulder hurt, I was tired and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Duncan gave me a lift in the Range Rover as far as the store, which Brody thought would still be open. The rain had stopped but the wind still rocked the car as we drove through the village. Brody had told me the
phones were still off, so I’d borrowed
WRITTEN IN BONE
135
Duncan’s radio to try to call Jenny. Digital or not, the signal was still patchy, and when I finally got through I reached her voicemail yet again. What did you expect? She’s not going to sit around waiting for you to call.
Disappointed, I gave Duncan the radio back. He took it absently, lost in thought. Except for when I’d explained my findings earlier, he ’d been unusually quiet. Almost pensive, in fact, and when he drove past the store I had to remind him to stop.
‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling over.
He still seemed distracted as I got out of the car, but I put it down to his not relishing another night alone in the camper van.
‘No need to wait, I’ll walk back from here,’ I told him. ‘The fresh air will do me good.’
‘Dr Hunter?’ he said, before I could close the door.
‘Yes?’ I said, bracing myself against the wind. But whatever he had been about to say, he ’d evidently thought better of it. ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’
‘You sure?’
‘Aye. Just me being daft.’ He gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I better be getting back to relieve Sergeant Fraser. He ’ll kill me if I’m late.’
I nearly pressed him. But whatever was on his mind, I supposed he ’d tell me when he was ready.
I raised my hand in acknowledgement as he drove off, but I don’t know if he saw me. I turned to the store. A light still burned inside, and the sign on the door said Open. It announced my entry with a tinkle of bells. Inside was a crammed treasure trove of tinned food, hardware and groceries. The smell took me back to my childhood: heady scents of cheese, candles and matches. Behind the worn wooden counter a woman was bending over to unpack tins of soup from a box.
‘With you in a second,’ she said, and as she straightened I recognised Karen Tait. I’d forgotten that Brody had said she ran the general store. Without the artificial flush of alcohol she looked more worn down 136