Written in Bone (25 page)

Fraser parked at the end of the track and climbed out. ‘That hers?’

‘Aye,’ Brody told him. ‘That’s Maggie’s.’

Both doors hung open, swinging slightly as the wind pushed them back against their hinges. The front seats were soaked from the rain, but it wasn’t water alone that darkened them. Splashes and smears of blood dappled the dashboard and windscreen as though flung there by a mad artist.

‘Jesus,’ Fraser breathed.

We approached a little closer but still stayed well back, so as not to contaminate the ground around the car. Brody peered through the open driver’s door at the blood-spattered interior.

‘Looks like she was attacked through her side and managed to scramble away out of the passenger door. What do you think, a knife or axe?’

It seemed unreal, discussing what weapon had been used to kill Maggie, when only the evening before I’d sat next to her in this same car. But sentiment wasn’t going to catch her killer.

‘Knife, I’d say. Not enough room to swing an axe, not without leaving marks on the inside of the car.’

I looked around the hollow. At night, beyond the arcs of a car’s headlights, it would have been impenetrably dark. Dark enough for Mary Tait to watch, unobserved. And to hear.

I imagined there would have been a lot to listen to.

Fraser was looking behind the car. ‘There’s more tyre tracks back here. Don’t look like the Mini’s.’

Brody clicked his tongue, exasperated. I knew he was thinking that either rain or sheep’s hoofs would have churned the tracks into mud by the time SOC got here to take casts. But there was nothing we could do about it.

‘She told her grandmother she was meeting someone. Looks like this was where. Mary must have been up here already, and close enough nearby to hear the commotion.’ He frowned, staring at the car. ‘I still can’t see how she came by the coat. It wasn’t damaged or bloodstained, but how come Maggie wasn’t wearing it on a night like that?’

‘Perhaps she took it off for Kinross,’ Fraser suggested. ‘Along with a few other things, if you get my drift. No other reason for them to be up here. Then they had a lovers’ tiff, or whatever, and Kinross lost his rag.’

‘This was no lovers’ tiff!’ Brody snapped. ‘Maggie was an ambitious young woman; she’d have set her sights higher than a ferry captain. And until we can prove it was Kinross she met last night, I’d try not to jump to conclusions.’

Fraser coloured up at the rebuke. But something he’d said had sparked my own train of thought.

‘He’s probably right about Maggie taking off her coat,’ I said. I told them about the car heater being stuck on full. ‘Both times Maggie gave me a lift she put it on the back seat. That’d explain why there was no blood on it.’

Brody was trying to see into the back of the car. ‘Could be. There’s hardly any spatter back there. If the car doors were left open when Maggie tried to get away, Mary could have just walked up and looked inside. Even if she noticed the blood in the front I doubt she’d realize what it was.’

Still keeping his distance from the Mini, he began to circle it. When he got to the other side he stopped.

‘Over here.’

Fraser and I went round to see what he’d found. Maggie’s shoulder bag was lying on the ground below the passenger door, its contents spilled on the muddy grass. Scraps of wind-blown tissue and paper littered the ground around it, snagged by grass stalks and turned to pulp by the rain.

Lying amongst the make-up and other artefacts of Maggie’s life, its muddied pages fluttering like trapped moths, was a ring-bound notebook.

‘Let me have a plastic bag,’ Brody said to me.

‘You sure about this?’ Fraser said uncertainly.

Brody opened the bag I’d given him. ‘Maggie was a reporter. Crime scene or not, if she made a note of who she was meeting, it’s not going to survive long out here.’

Treading carefully, he went to the car and crouched down by the open passenger door. Taking a pen from his pocket, he slid it into the notebook’s ring binding. Then he carefully lifted the book and slipped it into the bag. Even from where I stood I could see that the pages were disintegrating, the writing on them reduced to an illegible colourwash of ink.

Brody’s mouth compressed with disappointment. ‘Well, whatever was in it, it’s not much use any more.’

He started to get up again, then stopped.

‘There’s something under the car.’ There was a new excitement in his voice. ‘Looks like her dictaphone.’

I thought about all the times I’d seen Maggie brandishing her tape recorder. Like many modern journalists, she’d relied on it more than a notepad and pen. So if she’d kept some sort of record while she’d been on the island, it didn’t have to be a written one.

Brody could barely contain his impatience as I peeled off another plastic bag. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell Wallace this was my decision,’ he said, giving Fraser a shrewd glance.

Fro once the police sergeant didn’t argue. Evidence as potentially important—and vulnerable—as this could hardly be left until SOC arrived. Putting his hand into the plastic bag, Brody reached under the car sill and picked up the dictaphone. Then, retracing his steps to where Fraser and I waited, he reversed the bag so the muddied recorder was enclosed in it.

He held it up so we could get a better look. The voice recorder was digital, a Sony model similar to the one I’d lost in the fire.

‘Wonder how long the batteries last on these things?’ Brody mused.

‘Long enough,’ I told him. ‘It’s still recording.’

‘What?’ He stared at it. ‘You’re joking.’

‘It started when you spoke. Must be voice activated.’

He studied the recorder’s LCD display. ‘So this could have been running when Maggie was killed?’

‘Unless it was turned on accidentally when it was knocked out of the car, then yes.’

The wind wailed around us as we all considered that. Brody rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, staring at the small silver machine in the plastic bag. I knew, even before he spoke, what he was going to say next.

‘How do I play it?’

CHAPTER 25

THE DICTAPHONE HISSED
into silence after the last recording had finished. None of us spoke. The memory of what we’d just heard was still resonating, as devastating as a shell burst. Brody clicked off the machine, then stared into space, motionless as a statue.

I wanted to say something to him, but I’d no idea what.

The police Range Rover rocked in the wind, rain beating a tattoo on its roof. We’d retreated back to its warmth to play Maggie’s dictaphone. Each of the recordings she’d made were stored in its memory as a separate file, which in turn were arranged into folders. There were four folders in all, one titled
Work
, two blank and empty. The fourth was headed simply
Diary
.

The entries were ordered by date. About a dozen of them had been made since Maggie had arrived on Runa.

Brody had selected the most recent. According to the logged time and date, it had been made just before midnight. Around the time that Rose Cassidy had told us that Maggie had gone out.

‘Here goes,’ Brody had said, and pressed the play button through the plastic bag.

Maggie’s dead voice had issued eerily from the speaker.

Well, this is it. No sign of him yet, but I’m a few minutes early. Just hope he turns up after all this…

‘Hope who turns up? Come on, tell us the bastard’s name,’ Fraser muttered. But Maggie had other things on her mind.

God, what am I doing here? I was actually excited about this earlier, but it all seems a bit pointless now. Why the hell did Kevin Kinross have to tell me the woman’s name? I’m a hack on a local newspaper, not an investigative journalist! How did he know it anyway? And that stupid stunt with David Hunter. ‘Is the victim called Janice?’ Really slick, Mags. Now he thinks I’m withholding information. But I can’t just drop Kevin in it. So what do I do now?

There was a sound it took me a moment to place—Maggie was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She gave a sigh.

First things first. Right now I need to get my head cleared. Don’t want to make a hash of things now, not when I’ve pushed so hard for this. Christ, this car’s still like a bloody oven…
There was a rustling noise: she was taking off her coat.
Must admit, I’m starting to feel a bit spooked. Probably just all this other business, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m being stupid. I mean, there’s a killer loose on the island, for Christ’s sake! If I heard about anyone else doing this I’d…Hang on, what was that?

There was a long pause. The only sound was Maggie’s breathing, quick and nervous.

I’m getting jumpy. Can’t see anything now. Looked like a flash, like a torch. Probably a shooting star, or something. It’s so dark out here I can’t tell what’s land and what’s sky. Still…

There was an audible clunk.

Right, very safety conscious. Drive out to the middle of nowhere and then lock your doors. I mean, I’m not really worried. Not really. The man just wants to talk in private, that’s all, and the way tongues wag on this island you can hardly blame him. Even so, I’m starting to wonder if this is such a good idea. Better be worth it. I’ll give him five more minutes, and if he’s not here then—Shit!

We could hear that her breathing had become fast and ragged.

There’s that flash again. That’s no bloody shooting star, somebody’s out there! Right, that’s it, I’m going…

There was a coughing whine as the car’s engine turned over but wouldn’t start. Over it we could hear Maggie’s voice, further away now, as though she’d just thrust the dictaphone aside in her haste to start the Mini.

Come on, come on! Oh, don’t do this! I don’t believe this, come on, car, don’t be such a fucking cliché! Oh, you fucking heap of junk, come on!

Calm down, you’re flooding it! I found myself urging her, even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Then she gave a laugh of pure relief.

Oh, thank Christ! There’s headlights. He’s here. Bloody late, but I’ll forgive him that!
There was another laugh, stronger this time, then a snuffle of eyes being wiped and nose being blown.
God, some bloody reporter he’s going to think I am! Come on, Mags, get your act together. You’re supposed to be a professional. Shit, I can’t see a bloody thing for his headlights. How about turning them off, eh? Right, here he comes, let’s hide this thing out of the way…

We heard more rustling as she moved the dictaphone somewhere out of sight. There was the clunk of the door locks being taken off, then the creak of a door opening. When Maggie spoke again, she sounded bright and cocky.

Hi. What time do you call this, then? Thought you said midnight? Look, how about turning off the headlights? I can’t see a…Oh, sorry, I didn’t…Hey, what are you…Oh, Jesus! JESUS!

I bowed my head as Maggie’s screams and pleas began to shrill out of the speaker. The dictaphone had dutifully recorded everything. There were thumps and crackles as it was buffeted during the struggle, but they didn’t drown out the awful soundtrack of Maggie’s murder.

The confusion of cries and scrambling reached a climax, then there was a sudden silence. It was broken only by a faint noise, like rushing water. We were listening to a recording of the wind, I realized. The dictaphone had been knocked from the car as Maggie made her short-lived escape. With nothing louder to activate it, the machine soon shut off. There was a brief lull, then Brody’s voice emerged.

Wonder how long the batteries last on these things?

I heard my own voice answer,
Long enough. It’s still—

Brody stopped it there.

None of us looked at each other. It was as though, by listening to the recording of Maggie’s killing, we’d colluded in something shameful.

‘Why couldn’t she have just said the bastard’s name?’ Fraser said. Even he sounded shaken.

I stirred. ‘She’d no reason to. The recording was for her own benefit. Whoever it was, she didn’t think she was in any danger from him. She was only nervous while she was waiting, not once he’d arrived.’

‘Got it wrong, didn’t she?’ Fraser said. ‘All that business with the headlights. What’s the betting he left them on to dazzle her, so she wouldn’t see he’d got a knife?’

Brody had been listening without comment. ‘What about the flash she saw before the car arrived?’

‘Mary Tait,’ I said.

He nodded, his face pulled into a mask of fatigue as he ran his hand over it. ‘Wandering around with that toy torch of hers. If it weren’t so bloody tragic it’d be funny. Maggie gets spooked by a harmless teenager, and opens her car door to a killer.’

‘Aye, but who the hell was it?’ Fraser said in frustration.

Brody turned his attention back to the dictaphone. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything else on here that might tell us.’ He gave a gallows smile. ‘Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’

The wind rocked the car, flinging rain against it as though trying to force its way inside. Having played the last file first, Brody now went back to the start to play them in order. Maggie’s voice came from the speaker once again.

Well, this is turning out to be a better trip than I expected. Just wish my gran had access to the Internet, but the information age has passed her by, bless her. Have to get someone at the newsroom to check out spontaneous whatever-it’s-called. And do a search on David Hunter’s background while they’re about it. I’ll bet there’s something interesting there.
There was a chuckle.
Aye, and in his background as well. What’s an expert from London doing out here, and with Sergeant bloody Neil Fraser, of all people? Jesus, of all the bloody cops to run into. Still, good news for Ellen’s bar takings, I dare say…

I glanced at Fraser. His expression was thunderous.

Got a real bruise on my arm where he threw me out of the cottage. Serve him right if I really did file a complaint. Too shocked to do much when it happened, though. God, the state of that body! I’d love to get a better look. Perhaps I should think about taking another trip out there tonight. Fraser’s bound to be in the bar by then…

The back of Fraser’s neck was burning crimson. Brody kept his face impassive as he played the next file.

Maggie sounded bad-tempered and out of breath.
Well, a right waste of time that was. And I still didn’t manage to get a proper look at the body. Last time I try to play at commandos
. It was possible to hear a smile enter her voice.
Still, gave me quite a rush, I have to admit. I’ve not been that scared since I wet myself playing hide-and-seek at junior school. God, when that young PC jumped out at me! What was his name? Duncan, I think they called him. Keen bugger, but at least he seemed human. Cute, too, come to think of it. Wonder if he’s single?

The next two entries were mainly concerned with her personal musings on family and work. Brody skipped through them until a familiar name jumped out.

Went out to the Strachans’ earlier, hoping to get an interview. Fat chance. David Hunter was there with his arm all strapped up. Learned the hard way about going out at night on Runa without a torch.
She gave a snort.
Bruce Cameron was there as well, sniffing around Strachan’s wife, as usual. Creepy sod. Can’t see why the Strachans put up with him. Grace is nice enough, even though she’s so good-looking I should hate her. But can’t make up my mind about her husband. All charm one minute, frost the next. Mind you, I wouldn’t say no…

The recording ended on her mischievous laugh.

The next entry was another personal one, with Maggie worrying about her career prospects. Brody skipped through to the next. I felt a jolt of recognition when I realized what it was about.

Bit of a turn-up for the books this afternoon. Took a shortcut to my gran’s down the alleyway behind the hotel, and who should come rushing out of the back door but Michael Strachan. Looked guilty as hell when I said hello. Don’t know who was more surprised, me or him. Never even occurred to me there might be anything between those two. I mean, Ellen’s attractive, but the man’s married to a goddess, for God’s sake! But there’s definitely something going on there. Perhaps I should sound out my gran, see if any tongues have been wagging…’

So that had been who Ellen’s anonymous visitor had been, when I’d discovered her crying in the kitchen. The date and time of the recording confirmed it. After everything else I wasn’t altogether surprised, but the knowledge gave me no satisfaction. I glanced uneasily at Brody. A furrow had appeared between his eyebrows, but he made no comment as he played the next entry.

Well, you live and learn. Here’s me thinking I’m the seasoned reporter, unearthing some big secret, and it turns out to be old news. Course, my gran’s sworn me to secrecy anyway, bless her. Sounds like practically everyone knows, but just keeps quiet about it. Can’t help but wonder if it would have stayed a secret if it had been anyone else. People here know which side their bread’s buttered on, I expect.
She gave a cynical laugh.
The thing is, it’s obvious once you look for it. The little girl’s got Ellen’s colouring, the same lovely red hair, but if you ignore that you can see that Strachan’s her father…

Oh, hell, I thought. Fraser gave a low whistle. ‘So Strachan’s been playing away from home? Some people are never satisfied.’

Brody looked startled, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. But it made all too much sense to me. What was it Ellen had said about Anna’s father the night she’d treated my burns?
Let’s just say there was never any future there
.

Now I knew why.

The planes of Brody’s face had hardened. Ellen wasn’t his daughter, but she might as well have been. Tight-lipped, he stabbed at the machine with a blunt finger to play the next file.

It was immediately obvious from Maggie’s voice that something was wrong.

God, what a lousy bloody day. Seemed like a good idea, trying to get an interview with Strachan and his wife after she’d been attacked. Awful business, but they’re the most glamorous couple in the Western Isles, and this is a big story now. Thought I was being clever, dropping the soup all over the floor and batting my eyes at Strachan. Then Dr David bloody Hunter comes out with that Campbell’s crack. God, I just wanted the ground to swallow me up.

And as though that wasn’t bad enough, he tells me the young policeman’s been murdered. Duncan. What was his surname? That’s awful, I can’t remember. Some bloody journalist I am. He was really nice, helped me on the ferry with my bags. Even that night he caught me at the cottage. Doesn’t seem possible that someone on this island—Christ, someone I know !—must have killed him. I mean, what’s going on? I don’t even want to talk about it any more…

The file ended abruptly. Our breathing had misted the car windows, so that it seemed as though we were enclosed in a sea of fog. The world outside might have ceased to exist as Brody selected the next entry.

‘Two left.’

This time I thought there was something wrong with the recorder. The noise that came from its speaker was unintelligible at first, an indistinct babble of sound. It was only when I recognized Guthrie’s booming voice ordering a drink that I realized we were listening to a recording made in the bar before the meeting. Snatches of conversation came and went, then Brody’s voice came from the speaker. It sounded tinny and far away as the dictaphone struggled to pick up his speech from across the room.

We listened once more to Kinross’s vehement refusal to believe the killer was an islander, Maggie’s own question about the dead woman’s identity, and Cameron’s abortive attempt to assert himself. The recording became unintelligible again as the meeting broke up.

When it finished the tension in the steamed-up interior of the car seemed unbearable. Then Brody spoke.

‘Last one.’

This time Maggie’s voice sounded much more upbeat.

Finally, some good news! Almost missed it, too. I’d no idea the note was there, it was stuffed so far down in my coat pocket. It’d have been a real sickener if I’d not found it in time. Although why he wants to meet me at midnight, and out at Bodach Runa, I don’t know. Man’s got a sense of the dramatic, I’ll give him that. Anyone else but him, I might have second thoughts, but I dare say he just wants to wait till his wife’s asleep. Either way, no way can I pass this up. I’ve been trying hard enough for an interview, and if Michael Strachan wants to keep it private, I’m not going to argue.