Sacrifice (27 page)

‘Are ye plannin’ an insurance claim?’ he muttered again.

‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘Ye’d better see Mr McGill,’ he said, moving away from me.

‘Wait a minute,’ I called after him. ‘What’s the problem with an insurance claim?’

He paused, seemed to make up his mind, then walked back.

‘Thing is,’ he said, still without looking at me. ‘Thing is, I wouldn’t. We’ve had a lot just lately. Boat accidents. They always send someone. They investigate, you see, the insurance company. Find out what really happened.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘The mast broke.’

Then he gave me that half-pitying, half-amused look we all use when we know someone is lying to us. And they know that we know. And we know that they know that we know.

Except I didn’t.

I walked over to the boat. It was upturned but there was room to lift it and I did.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

I shoved hard and it turned over. Now I was looking at the cockpit. Just an eight-inch stump remained where the mast had been. Most of the rigging was gone too but part of the main sail was still attached.

The boy was beside me now. He pointed to the mast stump. ‘You make an insurance claim and you’re going to end up in court,’ he said. ‘No one will believe that snapped. It was sawn through, to nearly halfway.’

23

I MADE IT
back into town and headed out along the B9084, sick to the stomach at what I’d just learned. Our sailing accident had been nothing of the kind. The dinghy had been sabotaged. I remembered that my life jacket hadn’t inflated and felt worse still. At the Belmont pier I had to wait the ten agonizing minutes it took for the ferry to arrive. All the while I was thinking, had I done the right thing? I had to get off Unst and this was the only way I knew. But they’d guess where I’d gone. They’d be waiting for me at the other dock.

The ferry arrived. The four waiting cars drove on and I followed. Two more cars arrived and I looked carefully at the occupants. No one I recognized. As the air filled with a pungent smell of diesel and the growl of the engines drowned out most other sounds, soft rain started to fall. I pulled my coat collar up and hunched forward, fixing my eyes on Yell, willing it to get closer and, at the same time, dreading the moment we arrived.

I had too much time to think, on that long and piecemeal journey back to the main island. Someone wanted me dead. I didn’t need to ask why. I’d unearthed what was meant to stay hidden for all time. Had I left it at that, had I allowed the police to go through the motions of their investigation, I’d probably still be safe. But frustrated by their lack of progress, feeling an interest that was nothing short of personal, I’d interfered again and again. Without my search through the dental records, who would have dreamed of linking a mutilated corpse with a death from cancer? Without an identity the crime would never have been solved, but thanks to yours truly, someone had cause to fear. And now so did I.

From leaving the boatyard to arriving back on the main island, my thoughts remained resolutely self-centered. Then I remembered Dana. I stopped cycling and fumbled in pockets for my mobile. My brain was still functioning well enough to work out that I couldn’t be the only one in danger, and that it wasn’t just one potential assassin Dana and I had to worry about. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed a question not of who
was
involved but of who
wasn’t
.

Something very dodgy had occurred when Melissa was admitted to hospital. Whatever Kenn Gifford claimed about being in New Zealand at the time, he still ran the place. He had to have been involved, but he couldn’t have acted alone. The local police had gone through the motions of an investigation: from
the start, Andy Dunn had gone out of his way to play down the murder, keep it out of the media, send Dana in the wrong direction. Stephen Gair had watched his wife die, had arranged her cremation, only to identify her body on a mortuary slab three years later. And, as I’d just discovered, someone on Unst had sawed through the dinghy’s mast and sabotaged my life jacket. Just how many of them were there?

Not Dana, though. Dana had been as persistent and determined as I. If someone wanted me out of the way, she was a target too and I had to warn her. Trouble was, I didn’t have my mobile. I’d left it at Richard and Elspeth’s house.

I realized that I hadn’t spoken to her since late yesterday morning. I’d tried and failed the previous evening to find her and again this morning. It hadn’t worried me at the time but it was worrying me now.

Back on the main island I rode to Mossbank, a small town on the east coast where I had fifteen minutes to spare before the last bus of the day left. As I was folding up Elspeth’s bicycle and tucking it into the luggage rack I caught a glimpse of a police car through the back window of the bus. The car was parked not twenty yards away and the driver, from what I could see, was closely watching the last passengers get on board.

The bus set off. For the first mile or so I couldn’t help glancing behind every few minutes but there was no sign of the police car. After a while I started to relax and to feel, temporarily at least, safe. I didn’t imagine even the most determined assassin would
attack a dozen islanders on a public bus just to get at me. I was able to rest for an hour and eat a sandwich. By the time we arrived back in Lerwick I had the outline of a plan.

First, find Dana. I had to fill her in with what I’d learned since being on Unst and I had to warn her. Second, get off the islands. Go home briefly, collect clothes and important personal papers and get to the airport. Spend the night there if necessary but catch the first plane to London and then a train to Mum and Dad’s house. Third, get some career-focused advice on what my options were. If I left the Franklin Stone now – claiming undue stress – what were my chances of getting a decent job? Four . . . I didn’t really have a Four. Find a good divorce lawyer, maybe.

We pulled into Lerwick bus station just after four o’clock. I got off and unfolded the bicycle. And there was the police car again, tucked away behind another bus. Nothing I could do. I jumped on the bike and set off for Dana’s house. I didn’t have much hope of finding her there but, with any luck, my car would still be parked near by.

By the time I turned into the car park above Dana’s house my neck was sore from the number of times I’d turned to check the road behind me, my chest was starting to feel tight and my head woozy. But I was cheered by the realization that Dana was home. Or at least, her car was. My own car was where I’d left it, and – I quickly checked – the keys were still in my coat pocket.

I left the bike leaning against my car and ran out of the car park, down a flight of steps and along a few steps of the lane. I banged on the door. The noise seemed to echo inside, as though the house was empty. I started to think that maybe I wasn’t about to see Dana again after all. I banged again.

‘Do you have keys?’

I spun round. I hadn’t heard anyone approach but Andy Dunn was right behind me. Too close.

‘I’ve been knocking for ten minutes,’ he said. ‘If she’s in, she can’t hear us. When did you last talk to her?’

I couldn’t reply.

He took a step closer and put his hands on my shoulders. I wanted to shrug him off and run back up the path, leap into the car, on to the bicycle, anything, but I couldn’t move.

‘Miss Hamilton, are you OK? Do you need to sit down?’

I felt myself relax a little. ‘I’m fine, thank you. I need to see Dana.’

He didn’t ask why. He dropped his hands and turned to look at Dana’s grey front door. Then he bent down, raised the cover of the letter box and peered inside.

‘So do I,’ he said. ‘When did you last talk to her?’

I took a moment to remember. He rose and turned to me. He had very deep-set eyes, a dull blue in colour. The skin around them was coarse and deeply lined, heavily freckled. He looked as though he’d never been indoors in his life.

‘Tora!’ he said sharply.

‘Yesterday morning,’ I replied. ‘I’ve left several messages.’

‘Stand back,’ he ordered. I did and then watched as he backed away for several paces then charged the door at a run. His shoulder connected and the door, which had seemed sturdy enough just seconds ago, buckled under the force and crashed inwards.

‘Wait here.’ He disappeared inside the house. I could feel reality slipping away from me again. I stood there for five, maybe six minutes. I was aware of sounds around me: children playing in a garden a little way further up the lane, a large ferry coming into harbour, DI Dunn moving swiftly through the downstairs rooms of Dana’s house; also a rhythmic thumping noise, loud in my ears, that I couldn’t place at the time but I think now must have been the sound of my own heartbeat.

Dunn ran upstairs. I heard doors slamming. Silence. I started to pray.

Then his footsteps, thudding down the stairs. He jumped the last three, strode across the small hallway and looked directly into my eyes. Much of the colour seemed to have drained from his face and there was sweat on his temples. For a second, maybe longer, he just stared at me. I don’t remember seeing his lips move but I was sure I heard his voice anyway.

You can go upstairs now. Look in the bathroom.

I stepped into the house. I heard the click and crackle of a radio and Dunn’s voice, urgent and
unsteady, behind me. I started to climb the stairs, knowing where I had to go, what I’d find when I got there. There was a hiss of static and Dunn’s voice again. I carried on climbing.

‘Hey!’ he yelled and then there were footsteps running back into the house. I’d reached the top of the stairs and had pushed open the bathroom door.

Footsteps, running up the stairs. Heavy breathing. Dunn was behind me, his hands on my shoulders again. ‘What are you doing?’ he said gently. ‘Come on down.’

I tried to move forward but he held me back.

‘You need to come downstairs.’

‘I need to check for vitals.’

He must have seen some sense in that because he let me go. I took a step forward and leaned over the bathtub. I picked up Dana’s left arm. It was pale and slender, like that of a child, and blood was no longer pumping from the three-inch gash that stretched diagonally across her wrist. Her skin felt cold but soft, so soft, like the smooth depression at the base of a baby’s spine. I knew I would feel no pulse. I gently put her arm back down at her side and felt her neck. There was nothing there to find. Nothing to offer even the faintest glimmer of hope. One glance at her face had told me that, but I hadn’t even needed to look at her face. I’d known. From the moment I’d hammered on the door of her house and heard emptiness inside, I’d known.

DI Dunn was holding me again and my field of
vision was blurring. I could no longer make out the tiled walls of Dana’s bathroom, or the window ledge with its colourful glass sea-creatures, or the door. Just the white tub, Dana herself, like a beautiful statue, and the blood.

24

WHEN I CAME
round, my first thought was that I was still in the house and DI Dunn was leaning over me. Then I realized the eyes were more slate-grey than blue-grey and that the hair was dull blond with no hint of ginger.

‘What time is it?’ I managed.

Gifford looked at his watch. ‘Eight twenty,’ he replied.

‘What did you give me?’ I asked.

‘Diazepam,’ he said. ‘You were pretty wired up when they brought you in. Had me worried for a while.’ Diazepam is a mild sedative. If he was telling the truth I’d be woozy for a couple of hours but otherwise OK. I decided to put it to the test by sitting up. Harder than expected.

‘Easy.’ He wound the handle that lifts a hospital bed into a sitting position. Then he took hold of my wrist. I looked down in alarm but it was whole and unmarked. Gifford held it for half a minute while he checked my pulse. Then he took my blood pressure,
shone a light into my eyes and held up several fingers for me to count. I waited until he’d finished and pronounced me OK; somewhere near the end of my tether, but basically sound.

‘Where is she?’ I asked.

He looked confused. ‘Well, I imagine she’s downstairs. Tora, promise me you won’t—’

‘I promise,’ I said, meaning it. I had no intention of seeking out Dana. Dana had gone; somewhere I wasn’t ready to follow.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Gifford.

I didn’t speak.

‘I guess we never really know what’s going on in someone else’s head.’

‘I guess not.’

‘She was under a lot of stress. Had been unhappy for a long time.’

‘I know. I just wish . . .’

‘There was nothing you could have done. When suicides are determined, nothing will stop them. You know that.’

I nodded. I knew that.

‘I spoke to Duncan. He’s coming back but he can’t get a plane before tomorrow morning.’

I looked at him. ‘I might . . . I think I’ll go to my parents for a few days. Will that be OK, do you think?’

Gifford took hold of my hand again. ‘I’m sure it will,’ he said. ‘DI Dunn needs to speak to you. I told him to wait till morning. I’m keeping you here overnight.’

I nodded again. ‘Thank you.’

Gifford wound my bed back down and I closed my eyes.

People tend not to warm to me. I don’t know why, although heaven knows I’ve asked myself the question often enough over the years. What is it about me, exactly, that they find so unappealing? I can’t work it out and no one’s ever told me. All I know is that I’ve never found it particularly easy to make or keep friends.

I remember one incident from primary school: my class of eight-year-olds were exuberant that day and the teacher, Mrs Williams, was threatening that the worst offender would be moved to an empty single desk, right down at the front of the classroom. I was out of sorts, fed up with the yattering and fidgeting of the five other children on my table, so I stuck my hand in the air and asked to move. I’d meant that I wanted to go to the quiet desk but Mrs Williams misunderstood and thought I was asking to move elsewhere in the room. She asked me where I wanted to go; struck by the new possibilities, I looked around.