Written in Bone (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

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 looked over 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 motorised 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.’