Written in Bone

EPILOGUE

BY SUMMER THE events that had taken place on Runa had started to recede, faded by the blunting effect of memory. The post-mortem into what had happened had produced little that wasn’t already known. At the end of it, as Strachan had said, the dead were still dead, and the rest of us got on with the business of living.

A search of Brody’s house turned up the file that he’d put together on Strachan. It was a good, solid piece of police work, which was no less than I’d expect. He just hadn’t dug quite far enough. Like everyone else, Brody had never thought to question whether Grace might not be Strachan’s wife.

It had proved to be a fatal omission.

But the file still provided a chilling roll call of victims, although there was no way of knowing how many Brody-like Strachan-might have missed. It was probable that the fate of some of Grace’s victims would never be known.

Like Rebecca Brody.

Her father’s body had been recovered from the sea by a fishing boat a week after he’d thrown himself from the cliff. The fall, and the salt water, had carried out their usual disfiguring transformation, but there was no room for doubt. That loose end, at least, could be securely tied off, which I thought Brody would appreciate.

He’d always hated mess.

Not everything had such a neat resolution. Fuelled by spirits from the bar and oil for the generator, the fire had completed the destruction started by the exploding gas canisters and razed the hotel to the ground. A few charred pieces of bone, too damaged by the heat to yield any DNA, were identified as Cameron’s because of their location in the bar. But Grace and Michael Strachan had been together in the kitchen when they’d died. What few calcined bone fragments were recovered were impossible to differentiate.

Even in death Strachan hadn’t been able to escape his sister.

Ironically, for the moment at least, Runa itself still seemed to be prospering. Far from becoming another St Kilda, the publicity it received had brought an influx of journalists, archaeologists and naturalists, as well as tourists drawn by its new-found notoriety. How long it would last remained to be seen, but Kinross’s ferry was suddenly very much in demand. There was even talk of building another hotel, although it wouldn’t be Ellen McLeod who was running it.

I’d met Ellen again at the inquest into Brody’s suicide. She carried herself with the same steel-tempered dignity I remembered, but while there were still shadows in her eyes, there was also a new optimism. She and Anna had moved to Edinburgh, living in a small house paid for by the hotel’s insurance. Both Strachan and Brody had left them well cared for in their wills, but Ellen put everything they left her into a fund to help rebuild the island. It was blood money, she’d said, with a flash of her old fierceness. She wanted nothing to do with it.

But there was one thing they had brought with them from Runa: Brody’s border collie. It had been either that or let her be destroyed, and, as Ellen said, it wouldn’t have seemed right to punish the old dog for the crimes of its owner.

I thought Brody would have been grateful for that.

As for me, it was surprising how quickly life slid back to normal. There were still days when I’d wonder how many people would still be alive if I’d never gone to Runa, if Janice Donaldson’s murder had been dismissed as an accident. Oh, I knew that Brody’s poisoned obsession with Strachan would have driven him to try again, and that Grace’s madness would have resurfaced eventually. But the butcher’s bill still weighed heavily on my conscience.

One night as I lay awake thinking about it, Jenny had woken and asked what was wrong. I wanted to tell her, wanted to exorcise the ghosts that had followed me back from the island. Yet somehow I couldn’t.

‘Nothing.’ I’d smiled to reassure her. Knowing as I did that it was the small lies that eroded a relationship. ‘I just can’t sleep.’

Things had been tense enough between us anyway after my return. What had happened on Runa had only served to reinforce her dislike of my profession. I knew she thought it was too much of a link to the past, that it tied me to my own dead in a way she mistrusted. In that she was wrong-it was because of what had happened to my family that I’d once tried to give up my work. But Jenny remained unconvinced.

‘You’re a qualified GP, David,’ she said, during one of our not-quite-arguments. ‘You could find a job in any number of practices. I wouldn’t care where it was.’

‘And what if that’s not what I want to do?’

‘It used to be! And it’d be about life, not death!’

I couldn’t make her understand that, as I saw it, my work was already about life. About how people had lost it, and who had taken it away. And how I might help keep them from taking anyone else’s.

But as the weeks passed, the friction between us eased. Summer came, bringing hot days and balmy nights, making the events on Runa seem more distant than ever. The questions about our future still remained, but they were shelved by mutual, if unspoken, consent. Yet the tension was still there, not yet gathering into a storm, but never far below the horizon either. I’d been invited for a month-long research trip to the Outdoor Anthropology Research Facility in Tennessee, the so-called Body Farm where I’d learned much of my trade. It wasn’t until autumn, but so far I’d put off making a decision. It wasn’t just my being away that would be a problem, although Jenny wouldn’t like it. It was the statement of intent that making the trip would represent. My work was a part of me, but so was Jenny. I’d almost lost her once. I couldn’t bear losing her again.

Even so, I continued to stall, putting off the moment when I would have to decide.

Then, late one Saturday afternoon, the past caught up with us.

We were at my ground-floor flat rather than Jenny’s, because it had a small terrace at the back, big enough for a table and chairs during summer. It was a warm, sunny evening, and we’d invited friends round for a barbecue. They weren’t due to arrive for another half-hour, but I’d already started the fire. Cold beers in hand and the scent of charcoal in the air, we were enjoying the weekend. Barbecues had good associations for us, a reminder of when we’d first met. Jenny had brought out bowls of salad, and was feeding me an olive when the phone rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ she said, when I started to put down the tongs and spatula. ‘You’re not getting off cooking that easily.’

Smiling, I watched her go inside. She’d grown her blond hair longer recently, long enough to tie back. It suited her. Contentedly, I took a drink of beer and turned my attention back to the charcoal bricks. I was squirting lighter fuel on to them when Jenny came back out.

‘Some young woman for you,’ she said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Said her name was Rebecca Brody.’

I stared at her.

I’d never told Jenny what Brody’s daughter was called. I knew she wouldn’t want to know such details, and hearing the name from her, now, after all these months, left me speechless.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jenny asked, looking worried.

‘What else did she say?’

‘Not much. She just wanted to know if you were in, and said she’d like to call round. I probably didn’t sound very enthusiastic, but she said it would only take a few minutes. Look, are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I gave an uncertain laugh. ‘Funny you should say that.’

Jenny’s face fell when I told her who the caller was.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said when I’d finished. ‘I thought she was dead. God knows what she wants. Or how she found out where I live.’

Jenny was silent for a moment, then gave a resigned sigh. ‘Don’t worry, it isn’t your fault. I’m sure she’s got a good reason.’

The door buzzer sounded from the hallway. I hesitated, looking at Jenny. She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed me.

‘Go on. I’ll leave you in peace while you talk to her. And you can ask her to stay for something to eat, if you like.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, kissing her before going inside.

I was glad Jenny had taken it so well, but I wasn’t sure I wanted Brody’s daughter as a guest. I couldn’t deny I was curious, but I felt oddly nervous at the prospect of coming face to face with her. Her father had died believing she was dead.

And five other people had died because of it.

But she could hardly be blamed for that, I reminded myself. Give her a chance. At least she’d made the effort to come and see me. She wouldn’t be doing that unless she felt some responsibility for what had happened.

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

A red-haired young woman stood on the doorstep. She was slim and tanned, a pair of dark sunglasses perched on her face. But neither they, nor the unflattering loose dress she wore, could hide the fact that she was startlingly attractive.

‘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.

‘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 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.