Twenty minutes later we’d found a window seat in the inn at Weisdale. The view of the voe was grey: grey sea, grey sky, grey hills. I turned my back and looked at the fire instead. At home, in London, the blossom would be out in the parks, tourists starting to crowd the streets, pubs dusting off their outdoor furniture. On Shetland, spring arrives late and sulking, like a teenager forced to attend church.
‘I’d heard you didn’t drink,’ said Gifford, as he put a large glass of red wine down in front of me. He sat and ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping it up and back, away from his face. Allowed to fall, it just brushed his shoulders. It was fringeless and layered, a style you sometimes see on men who’ve never quite got over the rebellion of their youth. On a member of the Royal College it seemed ridiculously out of place and I wondered what he was trying to prove.
‘I didn’t,’ I replied, picking up the glass. ‘That is, I don’t. Not much. Not usually.’ Truth was, I used to drink as much as anyone, more than many, until Duncan and I started trying for a family. Then I’d taken the pledge, and tried to persuade Duncan to do the same. But my resolution had been increasingly weakened of late. It’s just so easy to tell yourself that one small glass won’t hurt and then, before you know it, one glass becomes half a bottle and another developing follicle is seriously compromised. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know quite so much about how the body works.
‘I think you have a pretty good excuse,’ said Gifford. ‘Have you read Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe?’
I shook my head. The classics had never really been my thing. I’d struggled with, and eventually despaired of, Bleak House whilst studying for O-level English. After that, I’d concentrated on the sciences.
Gifford picked up his drink, a large malt whisky. At least that’s what it looked like, but for all I knew, it could have been apple juice. Whilst his attention was elsewhere I allowed myself to stare. His face was a strong oval, the dominant feature being his nose, which was long and thick, but perfectly straight and regular. He had a generous mouth, rather well drawn, plump and curved with a perfect Cupid’s bow; one could almost say a woman’s mouth were it not far too wide to suit a woman’s face. That evening it sat in a half smile and deep indentations ran from the corners of his nose to its edges. Gifford was not a good-looking man by any standards. He certainly couldn’t measure up to Duncan, but there was something about him all the same.
He turned back to me. ‘Pretty nasty thing to happen,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’
He’d lost me. ‘Umm, finding the body, getting dragged into the post-mortem, or being deprived of Ivanhoe?’ I queried.
Around us the pub was getting busy; mainly men, mainly young: oil workers, without families, seeking company more than drink.
Gifford laughed. He had large teeth, white but irregular, his incisors particularly prominent. ‘You remind me of one of the characters,’ he said. ‘How are you settling in?’
‘OK, thanks. Everyone’s been very helpful.’ They hadn’t, but this didn’t seem like the time to grouse. ‘I saw the film,’ I said.
‘There’ve been several. That yacht’s in very shallow water.’
He was looking over my shoulder out of the window. I turned round. A thirty-foot Westerly was sailing close to the shore. It was keeled over hard and if the skipper wasn’t careful he’d end up scraping his hull. ‘He has too much main up,’ I said. ‘Do you mean the woman played by Elizabeth Taylor?’
‘You’re thinking of Rebecca. No, I meant the other one, Rowena the Saxon.’
‘Oh,’ I said, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t. In the voe the Westerly crash-tacked and sped off at an obtuse angle to its original course. Then someone on board released the halyard and the mainsail collapsed. The jib started flapping and a rush of movement in the water behind the stern told us he’d started his engine. The boat was under control and heading towards a mooring but it had been a close shave.
‘Gets them every time,’ said Gifford, looking pleased. ‘Wind pushes them too far to the western shore.’ He turned back to me. ‘Quite an experience you’ve had.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’
‘It’s over now.’
‘Tell that to the army digging up my field.’
He smiled, showing his prominent incisors again. He was making me incredibly nervous. It wasn’t just his size; I am tall myself and have always sought the company of big men. There was something about him that was just so there. ‘I stand corrected. It’ll be over soon.’ He drank. ‘What made you go into obstetrics?’
When I got to know Kenn Gifford better, I realized that his brain works twice as fast as most people’s. In his head, he flits from one topic to another with absurd speed, like a humming bird dipping into this flower, then that, then back to the first; and his speech follows suit. I got used to it after a while but at this first meeting, especially in my keyed-up state, it was disorientating. Impossible for me to relax. Although, come to think of it, I don’t think I ever relaxed when Kenn was around.
‘I thought the field needed more women,’ I said, sipping my drink again. I was drinking far too quickly.
‘How horribly predictable. You’re not going to give me that tired old cliché about women being gentler and more sympathetic, are you?’
‘No, I was going to use the one about them being less arrogant, less bossy and less likely to jump on their dictatorial high horse about feelings they will never personally experience.’
‘You’ve never had a baby. What makes you so different?’
I made myself put my drink down. ‘OK, I’ll tell you what did it for me. In my third year I read a book by some chap called Tailor or Tyler – some big obstetrical cheese at one of the Manchester hospitals.’
‘I think I know who you mean. Go on.’
‘There was a whole load of bunkum in it, mainly about how all the problems women experience during pregnancy are due to their own small brains and inability to take care of themselves.’
Gifford was smiling. ‘Yes, I wrote a paper along those lines myself once.’
I ignored that. ‘But the bit that really got me was his dictum that new mothers should wash their breasts before and after each feed.’
Enjoying himself now, Gifford leaned back in his chair. ‘And that is a problem because . . .’
‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is to wash your breasts?’ From the corner of my eye, I saw someone glance in our direction. My voice had risen, as it always does when I’m sounding off. ‘New mothers can feed their babies ten times or more in twenty-four hours. So, twenty times a day, they’re going to strip to the waist, lean over a basin of warm water, give them a good lather, grit their teeth when the soap stings the cracked nipples, dry off and then get dressed again. And all this when the baby is screaming with hunger. The man is out of his tree!’
‘Clearly.’ Gifford’s eyes flicked round the room. Several people were listening to us now.
‘And I just thought, “I don’t care how technically brilliant this man is, he should not be in contact with stressed and vulnerable women.”’
‘I completely agree. I’ll have breast-washing taken off the post-natal protocols.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling myself starting to smile in response.
‘Everyone I’ve spoken to seems highly impressed with you,’ he said, leaning closer.
‘Thank you,’ I said again. It was news to me, but nice news all the same.
‘Be a shame for you to be thrown off course so early.’
And the smile died. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Finding a body like that would unsettle anyone. Do you need to take a few days off? Go visit your parents, maybe?’
Time off hadn’t even occurred to me. ‘No, why should I?’
‘You’re traumatized. You’re handling it well, but you have to be. You need to get it out of your system.’
‘I know. I will.’
‘If you need to talk about it, it’s better that you do so away fr
om the islands. Actually, much better if you don’t do it at all.’
‘Better for whom?’ I said, understanding, at last, the real reason for our cosy little chat down the pub.
Gifford leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. For several seconds he didn’t move; I even started to wonder if he’d fallen asleep. As I watched, his mouth, not his nose, became the most prominent feature of his face. It almost became a beautiful mouth. I found myself thinking about stretching out a finger, gently tracing its outline.
He sat up, startling me, and glanced around. Our audience had all returned to their own conversations but he lowered his voice all the same.
‘Tora, think about what we saw in there. This is no ordinary murder. If you just want someone dead, you slit their throat or put a pillow over their face. Maybe you blow their brains out with a shotgun. You don’t do what was done to that poor lass. Now, I’m no policeman but the whole business smacks of some sort of weird ceremonial killing.’
‘Some sort of cult thing?’ I asked, remembering my taunts to Dana Tulloch about witchcraft.
‘Who knows? It’s not my place to speculate. Do you remember the child abuse scandal on the Orkneys some years ago?’
I nodded. ‘Vaguely. Satanism and some stuff.’
‘Satanism codswallop! No evidence of wrongdoing or abuse was ever discovered. Yet we had family homes broken into at dawn and young children dragged screaming out of their parents’ arms. Have you any idea what the impact of all that was on the islands and the island people? Of the impact it’s still having? I’ve seen what happens on remote islands when rumour and hysteria get out of hand. I don’t want a repeat of that here.’
I stiffened. Put my drink down. ‘Is that really what’s important right now?’
Gifford leaned towards me until I could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘Too right it’s important,’ he said. ‘The woman in Dr Renney’s tender care is none of our concern. Let the police do their job. Andy Dunn is no fool and DS Tulloch is the brightest button I’ve seen in the local police for a long time. My job, on the other hand, and yours, is to make sure the hospital continues to function calmly and that a ridiculous panic does not get a hold on these islands.’
I could see the first prickles of a beard jutting through his chin. The hairs were mostly fair but some were red, some grey. I made myself look back up into his eyes, but looking directly at him was making me uncomfortable; his stare was just a little too intense. Green, his eyes were, a deep, olive-green.
‘You’ve had a terrible experience, but I need you to put it behind you now. Can you do that?’
‘Of course,’ I said, because I didn’t have a choice. He was my boss, after all, and it was hardly a request. I knew, though, that it wasn’t going to be that easy.
He sat back in his chair and I felt a sense of relief, although he hadn’t been anywhere close to touching me. ‘Tora,’ he said. ‘Unusual name. Sounds like it should be an island name, but I can’t say I’ve heard it before.’
‘I was christened Thora,’ I said, telling the truth for the first time in years. ‘As in Thora Hird. When I got brave enough I dropped the H.’
‘Damnedest thing I ever saw,’ he said. ‘I wonder what happened to the heart.’
I sat back too. ‘Damnedest thing I ever saw,’ I muttered. ‘I wonder what happened to the baby.’
4
‘TORA, WHAT THE hell were you thinking of?’
Our sitting room was gloomy. The sun appeared to have called it a day and Duncan hadn’t bothered with the light switch. He was sitting in a battered old leather chair, one of our ‘finds’ from our bargain-hunting days around Camden market when we were first married. I stood in the doorway, looking at his outline, not seeing his face properly in the shadows.
‘Trying to bury a horse by yourself,’ he went on. ‘Do you know how much those animals weigh? You could have been killed.’
I’d already thought of that. A moment’s carelessness, a tumbling earth-mover and I could have become the body in the peat. It could have been me lying on the steel trolley today, being probed and measured and weighed by the good Dr Renney.
‘And it’s illegal,’ he added.
Oh, give me a break. It had been illegal in Wiltshire too, but when had that ever stopped a Hamilton woman? Mum and I had buried dozens of horses over the years. I wasn’t about to stop now.
‘You’re home early,’ I said, pointing out the obvious.
‘Andy Dunn phoned me. Thought I should get back here. Jesus! Have you seen the state of the field?’
I turned my back on Duncan and walked through to the kitchen. I tested the weight of the kettle and flicked the switch. Beside it stood our bottle of Talisker. The level seemed to have gone down considerably. But then again, I’d just come from the pub myself, hadn’t I? Who was I to get preachy?
A movement behind me made me jump. Duncan had followed me into the kitchen.
‘Sorry,’ he said, putting his arms around me. ‘It was a bit of a shock. Not quite the welcome home I’d expected.’
Suddenly, it all seemed more manageable. Duncan, after all, was supposed to be on my side. I turned round so that I could put my arms around his waist and drop my head against his chest. The skin of his neck smelled warm, musty; like paper fresh off the mill.
‘I tried to phone,’ I said lamely.
He let his chin drop so that it rested on the top of my head. It was our favourite hug pose, familiar, comforting.
‘I’m sorry about Jamie,’ he said.
‘You hated Jamie,’ I replied, nuzzling into his neck and thinking that one of the best things about Duncan was that he was so much taller than I. (One of the worst was that his jeans were two sizes smaller than mine.)
‘Did not.’
‘Did too. You called him the Horse from Hades.’
‘Only because he repeatedly tried to bring about my demise.’
I leaned back to look him in the face and was struck, for the millionth time, by how bright blue his eyes were. And by how gorgeous a contrast they made with his pale skin and spiky black hair. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, let me think. How about the time he got spooked by some cyclists on Hazledown Hill, leaped into the air, spun a 180-degree turn, shot across the road in front of the vicar’s new convertible, and took off down the hill with you yelling “Pull him up, pull the fucker up!” at the top of your voice.’
‘He didn’t like bikes.’
‘Wasn’t too keen on them myself after that.’
I laughed, something I couldn’t have imagined myself doing just half an hour earlier. Nobody, my whole life, has ever been able to make me laugh the way Duncan can. I fell in love with Duncan for a whole host of reasons: the way his grin seems just a little too wide for his face; the speed at which he can run; his complete refusal to take himself seriously; the fact that everyone likes him and he likes everyone, but me most of all. As I say, there were a whole load of reasons why it all started, but it was the laughing that kept me in there.
‘And what about that time we were crossing the Kennet and he decided to roll?’
‘He was hot.’
‘So he gave me a cold bath. Oh, and—’
‘OK, OK, you’ve made your point.’
He tightened his arms around me. ‘I’m still sorry.’
‘I know. Thanks.’
He pushed me away from him and we made eye contact. He ran the side of his hand down my cheek.
‘Are you OK?’ He wasn’t talking about Jamie any more.
I nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘I don’t think I can. What they did to her, Dunc . . . I can’t.’ I couldn’t go on, couldn’t talk about what I’d seen. But that didn’t mean I could stop thinking about it. I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to stop thinking about it.
Women in the first few days after childbirth – especially their first childbirth – are intensely vulnerable, often physical and
emotional wrecks. Their bodies are weakened, thrown into confusion by the trauma of delivery and by rampant hormones, racing round all over the place. Feeding at all hours, they soon become exhausted. Plus, they’re often reeling from the shock of the overwhelming connection they feel to the tiny life they’ve just produced.
There are good reasons why new mothers look and act like zombies, why they burst into tears at the drop of a hat, why they so often think normal life will be, for ever more, beyond them. To take a woman in this state, pin her down and carve up her flesh was the most unspeakable act of callousness I’d ever imagined.
He shushed me and held me close again. We stood, not talking, for what felt like a long time. Then, almost out of habit, I raised one finger to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. It had been cut recently and was very short. It felt like silk.
He shivered. Well, he had been away for four days.
‘The police will want to talk to you,’ I said, straightening up. I was hungry and needed a bath.
Duncan’s arms dropped to his side. ‘They already have.’ He walked over to the fridge and opened the door. He squatted down, peering inside, more in hope than expectation.
‘When?’ I asked.
‘Did it all over the phone,’ he said. ‘Dunn said he shouldn’t need to bother me again. She was almost certainly buried before we came here.’
‘They were asking about the previous owners.’
‘Yeah, I know. I said I’d drop the deeds off at the station tomorrow.’ Duncan stood up again. He carried a plate on which sat a half-eaten chicken carcass. He crossed to the table, put it down and returned to the fridge. ‘Tor, we need to try and forget about it now.’
Twice in two hours someone had told me that. Forget about the fact that you dug up a corpse – minus heart, minus newborn baby – in your back field this afternoon.
Sacrifice Page 5
