‘She told me Becky had been a prostitute. I suppose on some level I’d already guessed, given the way she’d been living. But actually being told it, by someone like that…When I refused to pay her, she threatened to tell Strachan who I was, that I’d been asking questions. Then she started saying things about Rebecca, things no father wants to hear. So I hit her.’
Brody held out his hand, considering it. I remembered how easily he had battered Strachan senseless in the
broch.
I was conscious of the constriction of my sling under the coat, and of the cliff ’s edge only a few yards away. It took a conscious effort not to look at it, or to step away from him.
‘I always had a temper,’ he went on, almost mildly. ‘That’s why my wife left. That and the drinking. But I thought I’d got it under control. Nothing stronger than tea these days. I didn’t even hit her very hard, but she was drunk. We were down at the docks, and she fell backwards, cracked her head on a stanchion as she went down.’
Not a club after all, then, but an impact all the same. ‘If it was an accident why didn’t you turn yourself in?’
For the first time there was heat in Brody’s eyes. ‘And be sent down for manslaughter, when that murdering bastard was still free? I don’t think so. Not when there was another way.’
‘You mean frame him.’
‘If you like.’
It made a twisted sort of sense. There was no link between Brody and Janice Donaldson, but Strachan was a different matter. If she was found dead on Runa, when it emerged that he was one of her clients—and Brody would have made sure that it did—then suspicion would quickly focus on him. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have been a justice of sorts.
For Brody that was better than nothing.
Something else had occurred to me as I’d listened. I thought again how the cracks had crazed Janice Donaldson’s skull without actually breaking it.
‘She wasn’t dead, was she?’
Brody stared across at Stac Ross. ‘I thought she was. I’d put her in the car boot, but I wouldn’t have risked bringing her over on the ferry if I’d known. It wasn’t until I opened it over here and saw she’d thrown up that I realized. But she was dead then, right enough.’
No, I thought, she wouldn’t have survived the ferry crossing with an injury like that. At the very least it would have caused haemorrhaging that would have been fatal without fast medical attention, and perhaps even with it.
But she hadn’t been given the chance.
So Brody had gone ahead as planned. He’d planted evidence at the crofter’s cottage that would further incriminate Strachan: dog hairs from his retriever, an imprint from one of Strachan’s wellingtons that Brody had taken from their barn one night, and which he’d then hidden back there for the police to find. Then he’d set fire to the body, not only to destroy any traces that might link him to it, but also to hide the fact that Janice Donaldson hadn’t died in the cottage, as an examination would otherwise have found. He’d even sold his car and replaced it with a new one, because he knew there would be microscopic evidence left in the boot no matter how thoroughly he cleaned it. Using all his experience as a police officer, Brody had tried to anticipate everything.
But with murder, as with life, that’s never possible.
His cheeks hollowed as he drew on the cigarette. ‘I was going to let someone else find the body. But after a month of waiting, knowing it was just lying there, I couldn’t stand it any longer. Christ, when I went in again and saw it…’ He shook his head, mutely. ‘I’d not used much petrol, just enough to make it look like a botched attempt to torch the body. I
wanted
it to be identified, to obviously be murder, that was the whole point. But all I could do then was report it and hope that SOC did their job properly.’
But instead of SOC, he’d got a drunken police sergeant and an inexperienced constable. And me.
I felt physically sick at the extent of his betrayal. He’d used us all, playing on our trust as he’d steadily pointed us towards Strachan. No wonder he’d been so loath to accept Cameron or Kinross as suspects. An acid sense of bitterness rose up in my throat.
‘What about Duncan?’ I asked, too angry to care about provoking him. ‘What was he, collateral damage?’
Brody accepted the accusation without flinching. ‘I made a mistake. When the cottage collapsed, it wiped out all the evidence I’d planted. I was starting to worry that there wasn’t enough to incriminate Strachan even if the body was identified. I’d been sounding out Duncan, knew he was a smart lad. So I decided to use him.’
He shook his head, annoyed with himself.
‘Stupid. Should have known better than to complicate things. I didn’t say much, only that I’d got my suspicions about Strachan, and that someone ought to look into his background. I thought I could steer bits of information his way, let him take the credit for it. And then I cocked up. I told Duncan that Strachan had been visiting prostitutes in Stornoway.’
Brody studied the glowing tip of his cigarette.
‘First thing he asked was how I knew. I told him it was just gossip, but I knew that wouldn’t hold up. No one else on Runa had any idea, you see. Lousy timing, too, because right afterwards you announced that the victim was probably some prostitute from a big town. I could see Duncan was already starting to wonder how I’d known. I couldn’t risk it.’
No, I realized, he couldn’t. Now I understood the reason for Duncan’s distraction the last time I’d seen him alive. Perhaps his suspicions were already taking root even then. Brody couldn’t allow that. He couldn’t afford to let anyone suspect he might have been stalking Strachan, that he had a motive for bringing him down.
Even if that meant keeping quiet about his own daughter’s murder.
He sighed, regretfully. ‘It’s the little things that trip you up. Like that bloody Maglite. I’d taken a crowbar with me to the camper van, but Duncan must have seen my torch while I was outside. I could have jumped him once he came out to check, but I waited until he was back inside. Putting it off, I suppose. He left the Maglite on the table when he let me in, so I picked it up and hit him with it.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Seemed the thing to do at the time.’
The disgust I felt only fuelled my anger. ‘The fires were just a distraction, weren’t they? Torching the community centre and the camper van, it wasn’t to destroy forensic evidence. You just wanted us to think it was, so Duncan’s death would look incidental. And you could incriminate Strachan at the same time, planting the broken petrol cap—’
I broke off, staring at him as another missing piece fell into place.
‘That’s why Grace’s car ran out of petrol. You siphoned it off to use to start the fires.’
‘I had to get it from somewhere. If I’d taken his it might have tipped him off.’ Brody had been gazing out at the horizon, but now he turned to me. ‘For the record, I didn’t realize you were still in the medical centre when I started the fire. There were no lights on, and what with the power cut I thought it’d be empty.’
‘Would it have made any difference?’
He flicked ash from his cigarette. ‘Probably not.’
‘Jesus Christ, didn’t you ever think you could have been
wrong
? That there was something else going on? What about when the yacht radio was smashed and Grace was attacked? Didn’t you wonder
why
Strachan would do something like that when he hadn’t killed anybody?’
‘Anybody
here,
perhaps,’ he said, and for the first time there was an edge to his voice. ‘I assumed he was panicking. I thought he wanted to get off the island before the police started questioning everyone. He wouldn’t have wanted them looking too closely into his past.’
‘But it wasn’t his past that was the problem, was it? It was his sister’s. You picked the wrong Strachan!’
He sighed, looking out at the horizon again. ‘Aye.’
There was an appalling irony to it. Because of Brody’s attempts to frame her brother, Grace had believed along with everyone else that there was a killer loose on Runa. She’d even believed she’d almost been a victim herself. So she’d taken advantage of the situation, murdering Maggie and burning her body so it would appear that the killer of Duncan and Janice Donaldson had claimed another life.
Full circle.
‘Was it worth it?’ I asked, quietly. ‘Duncan and the rest. Was it worth all those lives?’
Outlined against the cold blue sky, Brody’s hewn features were unreadable in the morning wind.
‘You used to have a daughter yourself. You tell me.’
I had no answer to that. The anger was ebbing from me now, leaving in its wake a leaden feeling of sadness. And a chilling awareness of my own situation. For the first time I realized how careful Brody had been to put the cigarette stubs back in the packet. He’d left nothing to show he’d been here. Even if I’d had both arms free he was bigger and stronger than me. He’d already killed twice. I couldn’t see him balking at a third time.
I took a quick look at the cliff edge, only yards away.
You won’t be leaving Runa today after all
, I thought, numbly.
A dark fleck had appeared on the horizon. It was too still to be a bird, hanging apparently motionless in the sky. The coastguard helicopter was early, I realized, but the surge of hope quickly died. It was still too far away. It would take it another ten or fifteen minutes to get here.
Too long.
Brody had seen it too. The wind ruffled his grey hair as he stared at the approaching speck. His cigarette had burned almost down to his fingers.
‘I used to be a good policeman,’ he said, casually. ‘A lousy husband and father, but a good policeman. You start off on the side of the angels, and suddenly you find out you’ve become what you hate. How does that happen?’
I glanced desperately at the helicopter. It didn’t seem to have grown any bigger. At this distance no one on board would even be able to see us. I began trying to work my arm from the sling under my coat, knowing as I did that it wouldn’t do any good.
‘So what now?’ I asked, trying to sound calm.
Something like a dry smile touched his mouth. ‘Good question.’
‘Janice Donaldson was an accident. And what happened to Rebecca will be taken into account.’
Brody took one last draw on his cigarette, then ground it out carefully on the sole of his boot. He put the stub in the packet with the rest.
‘I’m not going to prison. But, for what it counts, I’m sorry.’
He turned his face up to the sun, closing his eyes for a moment, then reached down to stroke the old border collie.
‘Good girl. Stay.’
I took an involuntary step back as he straightened. But he made no move towards me. Instead he began walking unhurriedly towards the edge of the cliff.
‘Brody…?’ I said, as his intention began to dawn. ‘Brody, no!’
My words were carried away. I started after him but he’d already reached the edge. Without hesitating he stepped out into space. For an instant he seemed to hang there, borne up by the wind. Then he’d gone.
I halted, staring at the empty air where he’d been a moment before. But there was nothing there now. Only the cry of the gulls, and the sound of the waves crashing below.
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.