When I'd written Chemistry I'd been a freelance journalist, and had no real expectations when I sat down to write a thriller inspired by a visit to the Body Farm in Tennessee, which uses real human cadavers to research decomposition. I hadn't anticipated how well Chemistry would be received - translated into sixteen languages, published in the US, film interest, and all the rest. Which was terrific, until I had to think about how I was going follow it up. What was going to happen to Hunter next?
It wasn't as straightforward as it might sound. The last thing I wanted was to let down readers who'd enjoyed The Chemistry of Death, but at the same time I didn't want to write the same book again. One thing I knew for certain was that, unlike its predecessor, the second novel wasn't going to take place in Norfolk. One of the advantages of Hunter's profession is that, like his real life counterparts, he isn't tied to a specific location. Forensic anthropologists can (and do) travel over the UK, and sometimes even abroad, to help police with murder inquiries. I liked the idea of that. And, given what Hunter and his girlfriend Jenny had been through in Chemistry, I thought it natural that they would want to move elsewhere.
The question was where? In the final scene in Chemistry, we see Hunter out on the Scottish highlands in mid-winter, about to begin another investigation. That seemed a good place to start, but I wanted somewhere even more remote. I came up with Runa, a fictitious island in the Outer Hebrides, but one based closely on the real Scottish islands I'd visited. For one thing there's a wild beauty and bleakness about them, especially in winter, that's wonderfully brooding and atmospheric. For another - and this was crucial - the thought of having Hunter stranded on a remote island with a twisted killer was too good to miss.
So that was the setting taken care of. Now all I had to decide on was the plot - what sort of situation was Hunter going to find himself confronted with this time? Quite early on, someone at a publishing bash had looked puzzled when I'd explained the second novel took place in winter. "But you don't get many maggots in winter!" he'd pointed out. Well, no you don't, but that was the whole point. Maggots, as well as blowflies and beetles, had played a significant role in Hunter's work during Chemistry. But I didn't want Written in Bone to cover the same ground. That would have been dull for me to write, and - even worse - predictable for the readers. Luckily, there's more to forensic anthropology than maggots.
Years ago, I'd read about stories of so-called 'spontaneous human combustion', in which victims appeared to have been incinerated by an intense fire, and yet nothing else in the room had been burned. The more I thought about it, the more intrigued I became at having Hunter confronted with this apparently inexplicable phenomena. What would he make of it? How could he explain it? How could I, come to that?
And so Written in Bone took shape. In it, Hunter finds himself taken away from everything that's familiar to him and plunged into a hostile environment where no one can be trusted. Like The Chemistry of Death, I wanted it to be atmospheric and gripping, with twists that would take the reader completely by surprise. How far I've succeeded isn't for me to judge. But hopefully it'll leave people with a little shudder the next time they look into the embers of a dying fire.
Simon Beckett, July 2007
Top
