Free Written in Bone by Simon Beckett Page B

eggs, bacon and sausage that Ellen set down in front of him. Then, taking up his knife and fork, he set about eating it with the determination of a marathon runner.
    ‘How long will you be?’ I asked. I was keen to make a start, conscious of how short the days were up here at this time of year.
    ‘Not long,’ he muttered, hand shaking as he forked up a spoonful of dripping egg.
    Ellen was clearing my breakfast plate from the table. ‘If you want, you can take my car. I won’t be using it today.’
    ‘Good idea,’ Fraser agreed quickly, through a full mouth. ‘There’s things I need to do in the village anyway. Start asking round, see if anyone knows who the dead woman is.’
    It hadn’t been made public yet that the body was a woman’s. I glanced at Ellen, and saw the slip hadn’t gone unnoticed. She gave me a knowing look as he carried on eating, oblivious.
    ‘If you’re ready I’ll get you the car keys.’
    I followed her from the bar. ‘Look, about what Sergeant Fraser said…’ I began.
    ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,’ she smiled as she went into the kitchen. ‘You run a hotel, you learn to keep secrets.’
    The kitchen was a single-storey extension, much newer than the rest of the hotel. Heavy saucepans stood on an old gas cooker, blackened with use, while a tall pine dresser was laden with mismatched crockery. A small portable gas fire hissed next to a big wooden table, on which sat a child’s colouring book and set of crayons. Ellen rooted in a drawer for the car keys, then led me out through a door into a small yard. Propane gas cylinders stood against the wall in a wire safety cage, looking like upright orange bombs. Parked in the lane just beyond them was an old VW Beetle.
    ‘It’s not much to look at, but it’s reliable enough,’ she said, giving me the keys. ‘And I’ve made a flask of tea and sandwiches for you all. I’d guess you won’t want to be running back here to eat.’
    I thanked her as I took them. The VW grated and whined when I started it, but it rattled along happily enough. The weather hadn’t improved since the day before: grey skies, wind and rain. But at least the village was more alive this morning. There were people in the street, and children were filing through the gate towards the small but new-looking school. I looked for Anna but couldn’t make her out amongst the parkas and duffel coats. A man wearing a peaked woollen hat, emaciated-looking even in a thick coat, was ushering them inside. He paused to stare at me as I drove past. When I nodded to him he looked away without acknowledgement.
    Then I was leaving the village, passing the hill where Bodach Runa, the ancient standing stone Brody had pointed out, stood watch. The island could never be described as picturesque, but it was starkly impressive: a landscape of hills and dark peat moors, dotted with sheep. The only sign of habitation was the big house I now knew belonged to the Strachans. Lights no longer burned in every window, but it was still by far the most imposing building I’d seen on the island. Its turreted granite walls and mullioned windows had been weathered by the Atlantic winds, but there remained an air of permanence about them.
    Brody’s Volvo was already parked outside the cottage when I arrived. The ex-inspector and Duncan were in the camper van, a kettle hissing away on the small cooking ring. The cramped cabin smelled of stale bodies and paraffin fumes.
    ‘Morning,’ Brody said when I went in. He was sitting on a tattered padded bench that butted up to a fold-down table, his old dog asleep at his feet. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised to find him here. He might have retired, but he hadn’t struck me as the type who would simply be able to let go after calling this in. ‘Sergeant Fraser not with you?’
    ‘He had things to do in the village.’
    I saw disapproval register on his face, but he made no comment. ‘Don’t mind my coming out again, do you?’ he asked, as