Sacrifice (12 page)

I took the pliers back inside. Duncan was fussy about his tools and took a dim view of my using and abusing them.

Of course, recognizing the tactic was a long way from being able to deal with it. I could (and was frequently tempted to) dismiss it as a bit of obnoxious power play. On the other hand, I’ve always known I’m not popular: I don’t have the gift of making small talk and I’m uncomfortable in large groups; I know I don’t smile easily and I have quite a way with the clumsy remark and the ill-timed joke. Much of the time I try, unsuccessfully, to be different; but sometimes I just want to scream at the people around me to grow up. I am a perfectly competent doctor; I work hard, commit no crimes, never knowingly carry out a mean or dishonourable act. I’m one of the bloody good guys, but because of a lack of surface charm, I’m doomed to be disliked by those around me. Well, fuck that for a game of soldiers!

On the third stair up there was a gold ring.

I stood, staring at it. It was a wide band, with some sort of pattern etched around the upper and lower circumferences. Gifford, I wondered briefly,
but Gifford hadn’t left the kitchen all the time he’d been here. In any case, this ring hadn’t been worn for some time; it was caked in dried mud.

I bent down to pick it up. Some of the mud flaked away, a sizeable piece with a definite indentation down one side. I sat down and took off one of my boots. Hunter boots have a distinctive pattern on the underside and the piece of mud that had fallen away from the ring seemed a pretty good match. The ring must have spent the last few days stuck to the underside of my boot. My running up the stairs earlier or, more likely, my falling down them had dislodged it.

I felt a bolt of panic. I’d been wearing these boots when I’d found the body last Sunday but had taken them off before entering the house to get a knife. The police forensics team had taken away the trainers I’d replaced them with, but I’d forgotten all about the boots. I’d seriously fucked up a major investigation.

It’s her ring. That’s what they were looking for in the field the other night.

I sat there, thinking hard. I really didn’t want this ring to be connected in any way to my lady from the field. For one thing, I found it highly disturbing that I’d been walking round with a piece of her jewellery stuck to the underside of my foot. For another, if someone had been looking for it, then whoever killed her was, without question, still on the islands.

Suddenly, I was nervous. I stood up, listening for sounds in the house, as though someone might be creeping up on me even now. Then I walked back into the kitchen and closed the back door. I even
considered locking it. Instead I went to the kitchen sink and ran about two inches of lukewarm water. I dropped the ring into it, waited a few seconds then rubbed it between my palms. I dried it on a tea towel and held it up to the light. Without really thinking, I slipped it on to the third finger of my left hand. It wouldn’t go past the knuckle; it had been made for slim fingers.

The body I’d seen on the morgue trolley was that of a slim woman. Was I now looking at her ring? When I’d cut open her linen shroud, pretty much all my attention had been on the horrific chest wound. If a ring had fallen off her left hand, I could have stood on it without noticing.

Well, her ring or not, I had to let Bossy Tulloch know immediately. Naturally, she’d be furious with me. Not only had I been responsible for carrying a crucial piece of evidence away from a crime scene and delaying its discovery by several days, but I’d even gone as far as to wash away the surrounding mud. I’d pretty much driven a cart and horses through the forensic evidence.

I put the ring down on the kitchen worktop and crossed to the phone. As I started to dial the sun flashed in through the window, making the ring gleam. I put the phone down and picked up the ring again. There was an inscription inside.

Too easy, I thought, too, too easy. I glanced round at the door again. This time I did move to lock it before holding the ring up to the light. The inscription was hard to read, written in that pretty
but virtually indecipherable script that I think is called italic calligraphy. A period in the peat hadn’t helped much.

The first letter was J, the second H or maybe N. Then there was a K followed by what could have been a C or a G. Then there were four numbers: a four, a five, a zero and a two. If they were the initials of the marrying couple and the wedding date and if – big
if
, this – the ring had come from my friend, then we’d done it. We’d identified her.

I turned round to look at the phone.
Over here, now!
it barked. I turned my back on it and found the phone book. There were twenty registration districts on Shetland. I dialled the number for the Lerwick office. It was answered immediately. I took a deep breath, heart pounding, feeling ridiculously, inexplicably guilty, and then told the woman who I was, stressing my position of seniority at the hospital. As usual, it worked; she became interested, eager to help.

‘We’ve found a piece of jewellery,’ I explained. ‘I think you may be able to help trace its owner.’

‘Of course, what can we do, Miss Hamilton?’

‘I think it’s a wedding ring. It has an inscription that looks like a wedding date and some initials. You keep records of weddings, don’t you?’

‘All weddings in Lerwick, yes. Did the wedding take place in the town?’

‘I’m not sure; I think so. I don’t have a name, though. Can your records be searched just with a date?’

‘Well, you could look up all the weddings that took place on that particular day and see if your initials matched any of them.’

Was it really going to be that simple?

‘Can I do that? Can a member of the public just come along and search the records?’

‘Absolutely. We normally charge £10 for an hour’s search but I’m sure in your case we could . . .’ She left the offer hanging.

‘Do I need to make an appointment?

‘No, just come along. Our hours are 10 a.m. till 1 p.m. and then 2 p.m. until 4 p.m.’

I glanced at the clock. The vet was due any second and I had nothing planned for the rest of the day that couldn’t wait.

I knew I should hand the ring over to DS Tulloch and let her get on with it. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll be along this afternoon.’

Two hours later I arrived at the register office in Lerwick. The vet had been and gone. Charles was going to be fine: lame for a few days, but then good as new. The news had softened, a little, my fury with Gifford. He might have given my fragile professional confidence a kicking but at least he’d saved my horse.

Before leaving home I’d phoned DS Tulloch and left a brief message on her voicemail, telling her I’d found something that might be connected to the murder and that I’d drop it by the station on my way into town. I hadn’t been specific. I’d put the ring in
a sterile bag and enclosed it, with a brief note, inside a large brown envelope. When I’d arrived at the station, Dana was still out so I left it, marked for her attention, at the front desk. I felt like I’d just lit the blue touch-paper on a firework and needed to stand well back.

Marion, the woman I’d spoken to on the phone, led me to a computer screen. I checked my watch. Twelve-thirty. I had half an hour before the office closed for lunch. Taking a folded Post-it note out of my bag I double-checked the date I’d noted before handing the ring in: 4.5.02, 4 May 2002. I found the right year and scrolled down until I came to the May weddings. It was a popular month for tying the knot. There had been four Saturdays in that particular May and several weddings on each; also a few mid-week ceremonies. Twenty-two weddings in all. I scanned down the list until I found the fourth of the month and immediately spotted a definite possibility. Kyle Griffiths married Janet Hammond at St Margaret’s Church. I scribbled down all the details before checking the rest of the list. Nothing else.

‘Found anything?’

I jumped before I could help it, then took a deep breath and told myself that I was not going to look guilty, apologize or ramble on mindlessly. I turned round.

Dana Tulloch, as usual, was immaculately dressed, in black trousers, simple red top and an obviously expensive black, red and white plaid jacket. I found
myself wondering how she managed to be so well dressed on a police sergeant’s salary.

‘You look nice,’ I said, without thinking.

She gave me a surprised look and pulled up a chair beside me. I showed her my scribble. She nodded.

‘I’ll get it checked,’ she said. ‘Anything else?’

I shook my head. She reached into her bag and pulled out the clear plastic wallet I’d left at the station earlier. The ring gleamed inside it. My note had been removed.

‘When did you find it?’ she asked, looking at the ring, not at me.

‘This morning,’ I said. ‘Late morning.’

She nodded. ‘How sure can you be that it came out of the same patch of ground?’

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘But I’m pretty certain I haven’t worn those wellingtons since Sunday.’

‘They should have been given to the SSU.’

I couldn’t remember what the SSU was, but I knew I was in trouble.

‘Slipped my mind,’ I said truthfully. ‘I was traumatized.’

‘You washed it,’ she said, in an
I-really-do-give-up
sort of voice.

‘Didn’t wash the wellington,’ I offered.

She shook her head. ‘It’s all far from ideal.’

Behind her, Marion was making herself conspicuous. She wanted to close for lunch. I lowered my voice. ‘I’m sure the woman missing her heart would agree with you.’

Dana sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘You really shouldn’t be here.’

I looked her straight in the eye. ‘What can I say? I dug her up. I have an interest.’

‘I know. But you should let us do our job.’ She broke eye contact, looked down at her nails. Of course, they were perfect. Then she stood up. ‘I spoke to your father-in-law,’ she went on. ‘He said the book I had was as good an authority as I was going to get. He was sorry he couldn’t be more help.’

I stood too. ‘There are eight more registration districts on the southern part of the mainland,’ I said.

She looked at me. ‘And?’

‘I have no plans for the rest of the day.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not a good idea.’

Something not quite resolved in her voice told me the argument wasn’t over yet. I showed her the page I’d torn out of the phone book.

‘From here, I’m going to Walls, then to Tingwall. I expect to be done by about five and I’ll probably be in the mood for a drink in the Douglas Arms. Tomorrow I’m back at work and no longer available to act as your unpaid personal assistant. If I were you, I’d make the most of it.’

I walked out of the offices, wondering if she’d try to stop me, not sure if she even could and feeling rather spitefully pleased at doing something of which I knew the police and my boss – especially my boss – would disapprove.

By five fifteen I was back in Lerwick. I walked into the dim interior of the Douglas Arms and spotted Dana sitting alone at a table in one of the darker corners, gazing at the screen of her notebook computer. I bought myself a drink and sat down beside her.

‘Come here often?’ I asked.

She looked up and frowned. ‘Anything?’ she said, looking seriously pissed off. Just when I’d thought the ice queen was melting.

I opened my notebook. ‘Two more possibilities,’ I said. ‘A Kirsten Georgeson, aged twenty-six, married a Joss Hawick at St Magnus’s Church in Lerwick. Also, a Karl Gevvons married Julie Howard, aged twenty-five. Registry-office wedding. Both women are the right age.’

Without asking, she ripped out the page.

‘How about you?’ I asked.

‘Three districts, no matches,’ she said. ‘And I checked out the one you found earlier. Janet Hammond is divorced, living in Aberdeen and very much alive.’

‘Well, good for her.’

‘Quite. I think this may have been a waste of time.’

‘Why?’

She wiggled the mouse around on the table and a new screen appeared: the list of births on the islands I’d given her three days earlier. ‘The team have almost finished checking this,’ she said.

I leaned closer; the screen was absurdly tiny and,
if not at the right angle, pretty much unreadable. ‘Yeah,’ I prompted.

‘The ones in the right age and ethnic groups are almost all accounted for. It looks as though she wasn’t a local woman, after all.’

I thought about that for a moment. ‘That throws it wide open.’

‘Oh yes.’

I now understood why she looked annoyed. Her boss was about to be proved right and she wrong.

There was a rush of cold air as the door opened and a group of men from one of the rigs came in. Noise levels in the pub leaped up. One or two of them glanced towards us and I looked away quickly; Dana hadn’t even noticed them.

‘What do you know about Tronal?’ she asked.

I had to think for a second. According to my list, several babies had been born on Tronal during 2005. I’d made a mental note to ask Gifford about it.

‘An island,’ I said. ‘Four women on the list gave birth there.’

Dana nodded. ‘Two of whom we haven’t been able to trace yet. So yesterday, DI Dunn and I took a trip. It’s about half a mile off the coast of Unst. Privately owned. They sent a boat to meet us.’

‘Is there a medical centre there?’ I asked.

‘There’s a state-of-the-art private maternity hospital, run by a charitable trust, with links to the local adoption agency,’ said Dana, appearing to enjoy the look of amazement on my face. ‘They offer, and
I’m quoting now, a “sensitive solution to unfortunate and ill-timed pregnancies”.’

‘Hang on . . . but . . . where do these women come from?’

She shook her head. ‘All over the UK, even overseas. Typically, they’re young career women, not ready to be tied down.’

‘Don’t such women just have terminations?’

‘Tronal does those as well. But they say some women have ethical difficulties with abortion, even in this day and age. They didn’t say as much, but I guess they get some of their custom from the nearby Catholic countries.’

I was still struggling with the idea of a maternity facility I knew nothing about. ‘Who provides obstetric support?’