Sacrifice (42 page)

Jesus, what the hell was I thinking?

I parked. To my relief and disappointment (in equal parts) the car park was empty and the clubhouse in darkness. Anything getting in my way at this stage I’d have taken as a sign not to go on. It took just a few seconds to break into the cupboard and find the keys I was looking for. I took some waterproofs and a life jacket and made my way down to the jetty.

Duncan and Richard had a friend on Yell who was a keen sailor. He’d recently bought one of the new sport boats and he’d taken Duncan and me out in it several times. It was a sailing boat, built for speed, but with a deep keel giving it greater stability than the average dinghy. It had an engine, for when the wind wasn’t on your side; a small covered cabin, for when the weather wasn’t; and an anchor, so you could park at sea.

I was about to add grand larceny to the list of complaints the police and other island authorities had against me, but, hell, maybe I wouldn’t live to face the music.

The jetty, fifty years old if it was a day, rocked
beneath me. The wind whipped my hair up and I guessed it had risen to a force six. Any greater and I would be taking a stupid risk with my own life. I was probably doing that anyway.

Marinas are never silent places and when strong winds whistle through them the noise can really jar on the nerves. Several boats were moored against the jetty and their riggings were twanging and humming like so many high-pitched discordant guitars. Several of them clanged together and even in the relative shelter of the marina small waves were banging aggressively against hulls. It did not augur well for conditions out at sea.

I found the boat, climbed aboard and unlocked the cabin. Only to have a debilitating attack of nerves. I made myself focus on getting the boat ready, one step at a time. If there was anything I couldn’t do, that would be the sign to give up. I fixed the jib in place and threaded the sheets. I attached the main sail and released the kicker. I checked fuel and the instruments. Expecting every second to hear a yell of outrage, I finished faster than expected. And I’d calmed down. A little.

Our friend had local charts on board and I studied them for some time. From the marina at Gutcher I would sail directly south-east for about a mile, hidden behind a small, uninhabited island called Linga. Once I cleared Linga, I could alter my course and head directly west towards Tronal. There were cliffs on its western edge but also an area of sloping beach. I’d be able to anchor. If I got that far.

Telling myself it was now or never, I released the stern line, made a slip knot on the bow and started the engine. I put the boat into reverse and pulled slowly out of the marina. No one saw me; or if they did, no one called or raised the alarm.

As I left the harbour a wave came crashing over the starboard bow, hitting me full in the face. I had not imagined it would be so cold. I pulled my hood up and fastened the strings tight.

The sky was thick with cloud and darkness was falling fast. I’d put the chart into a plastic cover and hung it from the instrument panel; pretty soon, with visibility down to virtually zero, I’d need to check it every few minutes. I turned the boat sharply to starboard and I was in the channel between Linga and Yell. Now the waves were hitting me head on. Every couple of seconds – wham – we slammed into another and its freezing particles came hurtling over the bow. I was soon soaked.

I was leaving the lights of Gutcher behind me. On either side land rose up like dark shadows. The engine was a small one, struggling to make four knots, and far too noisy. If I were to get to Tronal in less than an hour and not be heard, I’d have to sail. I started to haul up the mainsail. Immediately the boat began to heel.

It took every ounce of courage I had to unfurl the jib but I knew I wouldn’t have enough stability without it. I pulled it out halfway. The sail filled, the boat accelerated away and I switched off the engine.

Within minutes the speed was up to seven knots
and the boat was heeling at a thirty-degree angle. I was braced against the side of the boat to stay upright as we slammed into waves that felt like brick walls. But I was making progress; and I was in control. Just.

I hunkered down in the cockpit. Every strong gust of wind threatened to pitch the boat on to its side. With one hand, I held tightly on to the stick; the other held the main sheet. Every time I felt the tiller pushing out of control, I released the tension in the main and clung on for dear life until the boat righted itself again.

All too soon, I’d reached the southernmost tip of Linga and had to leave the shelter of the channel. I turned the boat to port and altered the sails. The wind was now coming over the port stern and the boat stopped heeling and came upright again. The sails filled and my speed picked up. Seven and a half, eight, eight and a half knots. At this rate, as long as I didn’t jibe, I’d be at Tronal in no time.

And what the hell was I going to find there?

Helen had been wrong. Helen was a fine police officer and she’d done what she’d been trained to do; she’d stuck to the facts. But the facts only took us so far. They took us to Tronal being the centre of a scheme involving the illegal sale of babies, to Stephen Gair being head of the operation, assisted by Dunn and several others, identities still to be determined.

They took us to Melissa being murdered to protect the operation; brilliantly dispatched in a way that in
the normal course of events would never have been suspected, even if her body had been discovered.

But the facts didn’t explain her strange, ritualistic burial on my land, instead of being conveniently dumped at sea. They didn’t – paternal bonding aside – explain Gair taking the enormous risk of holding her prisoner for long enough for their baby to be born. They didn’t explain Kirsten’s wedding ring being found in my field.

Nor could the facts explain the regular rise in the female death rate, followed a year later by a batch of baby boys, incorrectly and illegally registered as the birth children of their adoptive mothers.

To explain all that, you had to take a giant leap of faith; which Helen had been unable to do, but which Dana had been veering towards and at which I, finally, had arrived. Here, on Shetland, legend lived. The Trows of so many island stories were real, dwelling among humans, passing for human.

Of course, I knew that if you were to dissect the bodies of these Trows, carry out every known medical test on their blood, their DNA, their bone structure, they’d be no different, anatomically, from any other human male. But – crucial point here – they believed themselves to be different from the rest of the human race, to have different rights, different responsibilities; to be subject not to ordinary human laws but to a code of their own that was self-determined, self-administered and self-monitored.

The boat sped along as total darkness fell. The compass told me I was on track, the chart told
me there were no immediate hazards ahead, but otherwise, I was running blind. A few twinkling beacons aside, I was sailing in a thick black void. Vague shadows on the almost invisible horizon suggested islands or large rocks around me, but none was close yet. The depth gauge had given up, unable to calculate a depth too immense to measure. Logically that was reassuring, but I really didn’t like to think of the black fathoms beneath me. I sailed on, thinking instead about what would be waiting for me on Tronal.

History offers countless examples of the self-proclaimed master race. That had to be what I was dealing with now: a group of men who believed themselves to be intrinsically superior to the rest of us. Up in this remote corner of the world, a few dozen island men were operating their own private kingdom. Running the police, the local government, the health service, the schools, the chamber of commerce, they had control over every aspect of island life; automatically assuming the best jobs, the plum contracts, entry to the best clubs, making themselves rich with a complex mix of legal and illegal trading. Since the discovery of the North Sea oil fields, the Shetland Islands had enjoyed unprecedented economic prosperity and a group of local men were taking full advantage. It was the Masons meets the Mafia. With an extra bit of nastiness thrown in.

Of course, as evening became night-time, I asked myself why these men couldn’t just leave it at that; marry and mate like other men and enjoy the fruits
of their little fiefdom. Why did they have to kidnap, rape and murder the mothers of their sons? That dreadful process, I guessed – and the very small number of boys born out of it – would go to the very heart of their distinctness. Their rarity made them – in their eyes at least – immeasurably special.

Boys born into the Trow community would face a stark choice – accept what they were, enjoy the enormous advantages and deal with the horrific reality of how they were made; or leave and risk the destruction of everything and everyone they’d been taught to value. I knew now that Duncan had no desire to leave me; it was the life he wanted out of. I knew why he’d been so depressed about the move back to Shetland, in spite of the huge advantages it had offered him; why our relationship had been under such strain. Duncan was fighting the forces that had drawn him back to the islands. My heart went out to him, but it was a battle he’d have to fight alone for now. I had problems of my own to deal with and, in any event, I sensed he wasn’t winning.

A mass of darkness ahead of me was growing blacker, taking a shape more solid than the night around it. I thought I could even see small lights. I was nearing Tronal. I furled the jib and the boat slowed by a couple of knots. I could make out bumps and ridges in the cliffs and see a lighter area that must be the sand of the beach. The depth gauge was working now. Fifteen metres, fourteen, thirteen . . .

Waves were breaking on the shore. Ten metres,
nine . . . I was about to turn the boat so that it was heading directly into wind to allow me to drop the sails when I spotted rocks off the port side. The starboard side looked clear but I’d have to turn the boat round nearly 300 degrees and I wasn’t sure I had the speed any more. I looked again to port: more rocks. I was in five metres of water, four, three . . . As fast as I could, I reached forward, pulled up the keel and released the mainsail. Then I closed my eyes and held on tight to the stick. The wind was behind us and the boat continued forward until a scraping sound under the hull and a massive jerk forward told me we’d hit the beach. We travelled another yard or so, then stopped.

I collected what I needed from the cabin and then came up top again. I stood on the narrow deck, staring at Tronal, the geographical fortress I was about to storm. Since the dawn of time, people have surrounded themselves by water to protect against invasion. But it wasn’t just the island I was facing; it was the fortress of the Trows – an invisible but complex structure run by very powerful men. They were strong, they could hypnotize people. It was little use telling myself that they were, after all, only men. For generations past they’d convinced themselves that they were different.

At the end of the day, if you believe something deeply enough, it becomes a kind of truth.

36

THE BEACH WAS
narrow, sloping upwards, scattered with boulders that gleamed black in the darkness. On all sides, low jagged cliffs reared above me. They seemed to be moving and I almost cried out, then relaxed. The cliffs were home to hundreds of nesting sea birds – gulls or fulmars, I couldn’t tell – white bellies squirming, wings fluttering, heads nodding against the black of the granite cliffs.

I pulled the anchor from its locker and walked several paces up the beach until I could wedge it behind a small rock. Assuming I made it back to the beach, the boat would be waiting for me. I tugged on a small backpack I’d brought with me and set off.

I started towards the lowest point on the cliff. It was far too dark to see clearly and every few seconds I tripped or slid. At the edge of the beach I began to climb. After a few yards the pebbles gave way to thin soil, some scattered clumps of grass and coarse,
springy heather. It wasn’t steep but I was breathing heavily when I reached the top. A barbed-wire fence ringed the upper part of the island but I was prepared for it. With the aid of a small pair of pliers from the boat I’d soon cut a way through. After that there was a stone wall, about waist high. I climbed over, taking care not to dislodge any of the loose stones. I looked round, found a stone that had fallen and placed it on top of the wall as a rough marker of where I’d cut the wire.

Keeping low, I looked around me. Tronal is a small island, oval in shape, roughly a mile long and a third of a mile wide, with three stubby promontories at its south-eastern edge. It is fifty metres above sea level at its highest point, pretty much the place where I was crouching. Looking north I could see the lights of Uyeasound on Unst and also several down on Tronal’s tiny marina. A single pier, new and solidly built, jutted out from the small natural harbour. Several boats, including a large white cruiser, were moored there. A Land-Rover was parked near the jetty. I thought I could see movement around it.

From the harbour a rough, single-track road led across the island to the only buildings that were visible. Almost in the centre of the island, the terrain rose and then dipped, forming a natural hollow in which the buildings nestled. I dropped lower and started making my way towards them.

Instinct told me to stay close to the hillside, to move as quickly as the rough ground allowed. At one point I thought I heard voices, ten minutes later the
sound of a boat engine, but the wind was still strong and I couldn’t be sure.

After about fifteen minutes of ducking and scrambling, I could see lights not too far away from me. I climbed the hill to its summit and lay down on the coarse, prickly grass. Below me, not fifteen metres away, was the clinic.

It was a one-storey building, made of local stone with a high slate roof, built around a square and with a central courtyard. A gated archway in the north-western elevation permitted vehicular access to the courtyard. The gates stood open. Dormer windows appeared at regular intervals along the roof, six to a side. Only a few lights shone from the building itself, but the area surrounding it was dimly lit by a series of small lights set along the gravel pathways. I set off again, keeping a good distance away, to inspect the building from all angles before deciding whether it was safe to approach.