Sacrifice (17 page)

He was right, of course. The grown-ups are always right in the end. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly nine. You have a clinic this morning?’

I nodded. A busy one. Ten appointments, followed by two planned Caesars this afternoon and discharging Janet and Tamary Kennedy.

‘I’d better go too. Mr Stephenson will be wondering where I am.’

He was in the doorway when I called him back. ‘Kenn, what does KT mean?’

He turned. ‘Excuse me?’

‘KT. I found it on the system, recorded against births in summer 2005.’

Light seemed to dawn. ‘Oh yes, I asked that too. It means Keloid Trauma.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, it’s a term we coined up here. You won’t have come across it before. Hold on, let me think for a minute . . .’

He leaned against the doorframe, staring up at the ceiling. I watched him. The word ‘keloid’ refers to an over-reaction of fibrous skin tissue that sometimes occurs after surgery or injury. It can lead to a thickened or pronounced scar.

‘There was a study here a while ago,’ Gifford said, after a second or two. ‘One of our graduate students led it. I was away at the time and can’t say I’ve actually read the paper, so I’m going to sound a bit vague. Oh, I’ve got it. There’s a genetic condition up here that results in severe scarring after perineum tearing in childbirth. When the next child comes along it can cause problems. Hence, Keloid Trauma.’

‘Sounds like something I should watch out for,’ I said, relieved that KT, at least, was a mystery I could cross off the list.

‘I’ll try and dig the paperwork out for you.’ He turned to the door, stopped and then looked back over his shoulder.

‘Duncan doesn’t like me because I stole his girlfriend.’ He grinned at me: a thin, mirthless elongation of his lips. ‘More than once.’

14

I THANKED MY
lucky stars for a busy clinic that morning and for the fact that this really isn’t a job you can do with your mind elsewhere. For four hours I monitored foetal heartbeats, measured blood pressure, checked for excess sugar in urine and examined abdomens in various stages of distension. I discussed, with a straight face, whether damp panties were likely to be the result of waters breaking early or late-pregnancy incontinence and I resisted throwing up my hands in despair at the woman in the thirty-eighth week of her fourth pregnancy who wanted me to describe the exact sensations felt during a Braxton Hicks contraction.
Well, you tell me, love.

During my half-hour lunch break I grabbed a sandwich from the hospital canteen. Not feeling up to small talk, I took it back to my office and, with nothing to immediately occupy me, started getting flashbacks of the night before. My sandwich – rare roast beef – no longer seemed a particularly wise choice. Searching for something to take my mind
off blood-covered organs, I found myself thinking of Kirsten Hawick, who’d been killed riding a horse not far away. I’ve been riding since I was seven and consider myself, modesty aside, pretty good. But hearing about Kirsten’s accident had bothered me. The best of riders can be caught unawares and horses are notoriously unpredictable, especially on the roads. I wanted to know more. Had she been at fault? What had happened to the driver of the lorry? I switched on my computer and accessed the Internet.

The
Shetland Times
is not the only newspaper on the islands, but it’s the one claiming the highest circulation. I found its website easily enough. I put ‘Kirsten Hawick’ and ‘Riding Accidents’ into the search facility and pressed Go. A few seconds later I was reading the account, from August 2004, of how a supermarket delivery lorry took a blind corner on the B9074 just a little too fast and of how the driver had been unable to stop when he found himself almost on top of the woman on the large grey horse. Kirsten had been pronounced dead at the hospital and there was a quote – bland and sympathetic – from the senior registrar. The police were considering a charge of causing death by dangerous driving.

There would be follow-up stories in later issues of the paper but I wasn’t interested. I was staring at the photograph of Kirsten that accompanied the story. The caption described it as having been taken by her husband on a recent walking holiday. There were mountains in the background and an inland loch just
behind her. She wore walking boots and waterproofs and looked very happy. Her hair was cut into a chin-length bob and was as straight as my own. The night before, looking at the photograph at the Hawicks’ home, Dana and I had been deceived by a glamorous wedding hair-do and had compared it to the woman on the autopsy table with her long, corkscrew curls. When Kirsten Hawick died, her hair was short and straight. And that finally convinced me. I sighed, checked my messages – nothing from Dana – and logged off before heading down to theatre.

By six o’clock I was so tired I could have starred in
Night of the Living Dead
, but the thought of going home didn’t hold enormous appeal. I found I was really missing Duncan. We had to try and use this coming weekend as a chance to reconnect, somehow. Perhaps we could catch the ferry up to Unst and stay with his parents for a couple of nights. Our Laser 2 was up there for the summer and we could do some sailing; maybe even a race or two if the local club was active this weekend.

Dana hadn’t phoned and I was hugely relieved. I hadn’t worked out what I was going to say to her, but I’d decided I wasn’t going to do what she’d asked. I no longer believed the woman buried in my field was Kirsten Hawick. Any more digging on my part could get me into serious trouble and – more importantly – I’d promised Duncan. Somehow, I was going to have to get the dental X-rays back to her without anyone knowing she’d given them to me. I picked up
a pile of midwives’ timesheets that needed checking and signing, read through the first and scribbled my signature at the bottom.

If you’re not getting close, why is someone trying to scare you?

I stopped, pen in mid-air. Then looked down. My briefcase was by my desk. I reached into it and pulled out the file.

I’d promised Duncan.

I shoved the file back down and closed the case. Last night had been a joke, a sick prank, nothing more. Gifford was right: news spreads like forest-fire in small communities. In the restaurant at lunchtime someone behind me had muttered, ‘Have a heart, Nigel.’ There’d been sniggers and a scuffle, the sound of someone being elbowed sharply in the ribs. I’d given no sign that I’d heard, but knew that my adventures were common knowledge and that more than one person on the islands was getting some fun out of them. I bent down to the timesheets again.

Someone stood in your bedroom. Watched you while you were asleep. Some kind of joke!

I scribbled my name on a third and a fourth timesheet. I can’t say for certain that I read them.

They entered your house without breaking any windows, forcing any doors. Sound like an ordinary prankster to you?

I put down my pen and looked at my case again.

Can’t hurt, can it, to rule Kirsten out once and for all?

I pulled the black and white films from the cardboard file and placed them on top of white paper on my desk. There was a noise outside, someone walking past in the corridor. I got up, meaning to lock the door, and found my office keys weren’t in my handbag. Leaving keys at home is hardly a first for me so, thinking nothing of it, I took a spare set from the desk drawer and used them. Sitting back down again, I looked at the X-ray. It was what is known as a panoramic radiograph, showing every tooth present in the mouth.

Permanent dentition consists normally of thirty-two teeth and one of the first rules in studying dental radiographs is to count. There were thirty-one: fifteen uppers, sixteen lowers, only two molars in the upper right quadrant rather than the more usual three. There was what looked like a crown in the upper left quadrant; also a malformed root above one of the pre-molars in the upper right quadrant. Unlike all the other roots, this one had a distinctive distal curvature. Most of the teeth were regular, but there seemed to be a significant space in the bottom right-hand side, between the first and second premolar. Not big enough to suggest a missing tooth, just a gap that would be barely noticeable when she smiled. Several of the back teeth had been filled. I was no dentist, but I was pretty certain I’d be able to make an intelligent comparison of these films with any others that might be relevant.

The phone rang. It was the secretary whom several of the doctors share, with a call waiting from Dana
Tulloch. I asked her to tell Dana I was still in theatre and would get back to her later.

Glancing once more at my door even though I knew it was locked, I found the hospital’s intranet site and tried to access the dental department. And found myself tripped at the first hurdle. As a consultant I have access to pretty much the entire site, but the dental unit politely requested a password. I thought about ringing the hospital’s IT department but I was willing to bet all requests for new information had to be cleared by Gifford first. I got up and crossed to the window. His BMW was still in the car park. I took a puce-coloured folder from my cupboard and tucked the X-ray inside it. Then I left the room.

The recently opened NHS dental unit is in a separate building within the hospital complex, just a short walk away. I was still wearing my scrubs and I made sure my consultant’s badge was visible just above my right-hand jacket pocket. What I wanted was a not-terribly-bright-or-interested dental nurse.

I pushed through the double doors and forced my best smile on to my face. The nurse/receptionist looked up. The name on her badge said Shirley. She didn’t smile back or look at all pleased to have a visitor.

‘Hi! We haven’t met. I’m Tora Hamilton.’ I held up my badge and waited until I’d felt sure she’d read it. ‘Obstetrics,’ I added, somewhat unnecessarily. Then I looked at her with what I hoped came across as polite interest. ‘Are you new too?’

She nodded. ‘Just three months,’ she responded in a Shetland accent. So far, so good.

I leaned forward, trying for a friendly, confidential manner. ‘The thing is, I’ve got a bit of an embarrassing problem.’

Suddenly, she looked interested.

‘My predecessor left my office in a bit of a shambles and I’m trying to sort it out. I’ve just come across what appear to be dental records, but no indication of whom they might belong to. Now, I don’t want to get Dr McLean into trouble, what with him just retired and everything, but these things shouldn’t just be left around, should they? They’re confidential?’

She nodded. ‘Aye, they are.’

‘The thing is, I have an idea whose they might be. If we could just check, I can leave them with you, you can file them where they belong and the problem’s over with.’

‘Isn’t there a name on the X-rays?’

I tried to look as though I hadn’t thought of that and pulled the film out. There was a code on the bottom that I recognized as belonging to the morgue but I felt pretty sure that Shirley wouldn’t spot it.

‘Whose did you think they might be?’ she asked.

‘Kirsten Hawick’s. She’s a patient of yours.’

‘Thing is, we’re about to close for the evening. Can you come back in the morning and see Dr McDouglas?’

I shook my head, looking sorrowful. ‘I’m going to be in surgery all day,’ I said, which was a big lie. The only place I planned to be the next day was in
bed; exactly where I hadn’t quite figured out. ‘I guess we’re just going to have to do this officially. God, the paperwork. For you as well, I’m afraid. Ah well, have a good time tonight. I guess you have plans?’

I started to turn away.

‘You can call up the records yourself, you know. If you have a computer, that is.’

I turned back. ‘I know, but I haven’t got all my passwords sorted out yet. Too busy learning the ropes. I called the IT department before I came here but I think they’d all gone home for the evening.’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ she said, looking sympathetic. Then she appeared to have a brainwave. ‘Is all you need the password then?’

I tried to look puzzled. ‘I guess,’ I said. ‘Do you know it?’

‘Sure,’ she said and scribbled something down. Willing myself not to snatch, I reached out and took the Post-it note. I read what she’d written and then looked at her for confirmation. She smiled.

‘Dr McDouglas’s favourite film.’

‘Mine too,’ I replied, not entirely untruthfully. I thanked her and left.

Back in my office, I wasn’t sure whether I was terrified at what I’d done or delighted by my own cleverness. Shirley would almost certainly tell her boss what had happened. Even if it didn’t get back to Gifford, I could face some pertinent and difficult-to-answer questions from Dr McDouglas.

Did I really want to go on with this? So far, I
hadn’t done anything wrong. Granted, I’d tricked a junior colleague into giving me information I shouldn’t have, but I hadn’t used it. I could always claim I’d had second and better thoughts and would probably get away with it.

My screen still showed the homepage of the dental department. I typed in
Terminator
and waited. Then I was in. I found patient records and typed in Kirsten Hawick.

There was nothing there.

Huge relief. And a tiny but rapidly growing seedling of frustration.

I thought for a bit. Kirsten hadn’t been married that long when she died. Maybe she hadn’t got round to changing her name on all her records. I typed in Kirsten Georgeson and there she was: details of her age, address, brief medical history, records of her visits, invoices for non-NHS treatment. And her X-rays.

The comparison wasn’t as easy as I’d expected, as the format was different. The X-ray taken during the post mortem was just one film scanning from one side of the mouth to the other. Those produced during dental appointments tend to be taken in sections from inside the mouth. I had six small X-rays to compare to one large one. I started off in the top left corner, the section that I guessed would be easiest to distinguish. I was looking for a crown. Nothing.

Then I tried the bottom right corner for a small gap. Next, I tried to count the teeth. That was tricky due to the overlapping of teeth on more than one
shot. It didn’t really matter, though. I was as sure as I could be, without having a dentist sitting next to me, that the X-ray taken of the corpse didn’t match the dental records of Kirsten Hawick. I’d known already, of course, but now even Dana would have to accept defeat. It wasn’t her.