Sacrifice

by Sharon Bolton

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, wondering what Stephen Gair did for a living.

  ‘Except therein lies a problem. My wife died in hospital of breast cancer in October 2004. She’d been dead for months, possibly the better part of a year, by the time the murder took place. So the body on your land cannot be her. How am I doing?’

  ‘You’re cooking on gas,’ I said, borrowing an expression of Duncan’s. From the corner of my eye I caught Dana looking at me as if worried my head was still addled from the drugs I may or may not have been fed.

  Gair smiled. Too bright a smile, or maybe I just couldn’t cope with jollity this morning. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Trouble is, the X-rays match,’ I said. ‘Illegal search or not, there’s no getting round that. If she’d been my wife, I’d want to know why.’

  The smile faded. ‘I do want to know why,’ he said. He no longer looked remotely nice.

  Dana seemed to sense trouble. She stood up.

  ‘Shall we go?’ she said. ‘Tora, are you OK to go straight away?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Where are we going?’

  We were going to the hospital dental unit. Dana drove me, Stephen Gair followed behind. It took us ten minutes to get there and when we did, three cars were already parked in the car park. I was not in the least bit surprised to see Gifford’s silver BMW and DI Dunn’s black four-wheel-drive. A glance at Dana told me that she too had expected it. Stephen Gair got out of his car and looked over at Dana and me. He started to walk towards the entrance.

  ‘He’s dodgy,’ I said.

  ‘He’s senior partner in the biggest firm of solicitors we have here in Lerwick.’

  ‘Oh, well, there you go.’ Neither of us moved. ‘Do you think he tipped off the fuzz?’

  ‘What do you watch on TV? And no, I think that was probably Dentist McDouglas. You might want to muffle that schoolgirl sense of humour of yours for the next hour.’

  ‘Right you are, Sarge.’

  Neither of us moved. ‘What’s with you and your inspector?’ I asked.

  Glancing across, I saw her face had clouded over and wondered if I’d overstepped the mark. ‘How do you mean?’ she asked.

  No going back now. ‘You don’t trust him, do you?’

  Bracing myself for one of her put-downs, I was surprised to see her thinking about it.

  ‘I used to,’ she said eventually. ‘We got on pretty well when I came here. But he hasn’t been the same the last few days.’ She stopped, as though worried she’d said too much.

  ‘You give quite a lot away when you think no one’s watching you,’ I ventured. ‘You weren’t happy in the morgue that first day, you went out on a limb the evening we met Joss Hawick. And he left you off the guest list at my house the other night. You’ve disagreed all along about whether the victim was a local woman.’

  She nodded. ‘There’s nothing he’s doing I can specifically complain of, it just seems all the way along that my gut is steering me one way and he’s sending me another.’ We both watched as Stephen Gair pulled open the door to the dental unit and went inside. ‘We should go,’ said Dana.

  We got out of the car. I was still wearing yesterday’s scrubs and hadn’t showered, cleaned my teeth or combed my hair in about twenty-four hours. Gifford was about to see me looking like death warmed up and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  ‘The truth is in there, Agent Tulloch,’ I said, as we headed for the swing doors.

  She gave me a will-you-pack-it-in look, as the automatic doors opened for us and we walked through.

  ‘I am deeply uncomfortable,’ said Dr McDouglas, which struck me as just a little ironic coming from a dentist. ‘Your actions are reprehensible, Miss Hamilton. You might do things differently where you come from, but I assure you, in Scot—’

  ‘Let me apologize for—’ Gifford interrupted.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t.’ That time, it was me. I turned to Gifford. ‘With respect, Mr Gifford, I can apologize for myself.’ Fantastic phrase that – you can be as rude as you like to someone but as long as you put a with respect in front, you get away with it. I turned back to Dentist McDouglas, a tall, thin, arrogant shit whom I’d disliked on first sight. I was going to do it again. ‘And with all due respect to you, Dr McDouglas, my actions are not our primary concern right now. If I’m wrong, you can instigate a formal complaint and Mr Gifford here will make sure it’s dealt with according to the health authority’s procedures.’

  Gifford put a hand on my arm, but I wasn’t having it. I was on a roll.

  ‘On the other hand, if I’m right, then so much shit is going to hit the fan that any complaint against me will, frankly, get lost in the general hysteria.’

  ‘Your use of profanities offends me deeply,’ the sour, Presbyterian tooth-puller spat back at me.

  ‘Yeah, well, digging up mutilated corpses offends me deeply. Can we get on with it, please?’

  ‘We’re not getting on with anything here. Not without the proper authority.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Andy Dunn.

  I pointed at Stephen Gair. ‘There’s your proper authority. He is prepared to release his wife’s X-rays for examination. Or at least, he said he was before we left. Have you changed your mind, Mr Gair?’ As I said that, I knew, with a plummeting heart, that Gair wasn’t going to back us up. He’d never intended to let us examine the records officially. He’d been playing us along, getting us to admit everything we’d been up to in front of the very people able to cut us off at the knees. Stephen Gair had sold Dana and me down the Swannee and we’d fallen for it.

  ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind,’ he said.

  OK, maybe I wasn’t reading the situation too well. I decided to quieten down for a while.

  ‘I think it would help to see exactly what we’re dealing with here,’ said Gifford. ‘Who’s got the X-rays?’

  ‘Kenn,’ said Andy Dunn, ‘this is really not—’

  ‘I have,’ said Dana, ignoring her boss. From her bag she pulled the folder I’d given her that morning. She took out the large panoramic film taken in the hospital morgue and then the half-dozen smaller, overlapping shots – the ones that were definitely Melissa’s – that I’d printed off the dental intranet site the night before.

  ‘What do you think, Richard?’ said Gifford.

  Richard McDouglas looked at the films on his desk. So did the rest of us. From time to time, I looked up at his face but it was unreadable; a frown of concentration crinkling his brow, his lips curled in a scowl. Once, I risked looking at Dana but she was staring into space. I didn’t want to look at anyone else.

  After about five minutes, McDouglas shook his head.

  ‘I can’t see it,’ he said. Sighs of relief all around the table.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! ‘Dr McDouglas,’ I said quickly, before anyone else had a chance to open their mouths. ‘Could you look at the second molar in the upper left quadrant?’ He looked at Gifford, then at Dunn, but neither of them spoke. ‘Look on the panoramic radiograph first, please.’

  He did so.

  ‘Would you say that molar has been crowned?’

  He nodded. ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘Now look at the same tooth on your own X-rays.’ I pushed the relevant film towards him. ‘There, has that tooth been crowned?’

  He nodded again, but didn’t speak.

  ‘Now, please look in the upper right quadrant. Do you agree there’s a molar missing?’

  ‘Difficult to say. Could be one of the pre-molars.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I pushed another film in front of him. The look of distaste on his face was a picture. I was being unreasonably aggressive, but enough was enough. ‘This is the corresponding quadrant for Mrs Gair’s X-rays. Is there a molar, or pre-molar missing?’

  He counted the teeth.

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  Gifford leaned forward. He and Andy Dunn exchanged a glance. I was about to play my trump card.

  ‘Dr McDouglas, coul
d you please look at the root of this tooth.’ I pointed to a tooth on the panoramic X-ray. ‘I think this is the second pre-molar, am I right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The root has a very distinctive curvature. Would you say it’s mesial or distal?’

  He pretended to study it but the answer was obvious.

  ‘The curvature is distal.’

  ‘And this one?’ I indicated the same tooth on Melissa’s X-ray.

  He stared down. ‘Miss Hamilton is correct,’ he said eventually. ‘There are sufficient similarities to merit a proper investigation.’

  Stephen Gair pointed to the panoramic, then looked at Gifford. ‘Are you saying this is my wife? That my wife is in your morgue? What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘OK, that’s it.’ Andy Dunn had a loud voice and the proper air of authority when he needed it. ‘We’re going down to the station. Mr Gair, can you come with us, please? You too, Dr McDouglas.

  At that moment, my beeper sounded. I excused myself and went out into the hallway to make a call. One of my patients was nearing the end of the second stage of labour and the baby was showing signs of distress. The midwife thought an emergency Caesar might be needed. I went back in and explained.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Gifford. ‘Catch up with you later, Andy.’

  Andy Dunn opened his mouth, but Gifford was too fast for him. He had the doors open and me out of there before anyone had time to object. I caught Dana’s eye; she looked surprised and not entirely happy and I couldn’t help feeling that we were being deliberately separated.

  Once outside, Gifford strode ahead and I followed as best I could. It was difficult to keep up as we crossed the car park and walked up the flagged path that led to the main door of the hospital, so I walked faster than I really had the energy for and wondered when he was going to open his mouth and ball me out for the trouble I’d caused.

  I had so many words bubbling inside me I didn’t trust myself to get them out in the right order once I’d begun. I wanted to accuse him, to demand an explanation, to vindicate myself. At the same time, I was determined not to let myself down by incoherent babbling. It was up to him to speak first, to offer some sort of explanation and I was determined he was going to do it.

  He still hadn’t said a word as we entered the hospital, turned left past A&E and carried on towards the maternity unit. At the stairs he turned and started to climb.

  ‘I thought you were coming to give me a hand?’ I said, realizing I sounded like a nagging wife but not caring. I had the moral high ground now and I wasn’t budging.

  He was on the fourth step up but he stopped and turned. The light from the staircase window shone brightly behind him and I couldn’t see his expression.

  ‘Do you need help?’ he asked.

  Instantly I felt stupid. Of course I didn’t need help. But I wasn’t about to be ignored either. Two nurses and a porter were coming along the corridor. Their conversation faded as they took in the obvious tension between us. ‘You said you were coming with me,’ I said, not bothering to lower my voice.

  Kenn had noticed the others too. ‘I needed to get away,’ he said. ‘There are things I have to do.’ He turned and continued up the stairs. I stayed where I was, watching him. ‘You’re needed in maternity, Miss Hamilton,’ he said firmly. ‘Come and see me when you’re done.’

  The three staff members passed me and followed him up. One of them, a nurse I knew slightly, didn’t even bother to hide the curious look and the half-smile she shot in my direction. She thought I was in trouble and wasn’t in the least bit sorry.

  I could hardly follow Gifford up the stairs, demanding an explanation in front of half the hospital. And he was right, I was needed in maternity. I turned, continued on down the corridor and, stopping only to scrub my hands and tie back my hair, strode into the delivery room.

  There were two midwives in attendance; one a middle-aged, local woman who’d been doing the job for twenty years and had made no secret of the fact that she thought me superfluous. The other was a student, a young girl in her mid twenties. I couldn’t remember her name.

  The mother-to-be was Maura Lennon, thirty-five years old and about to produce her first child. She lay back on the bed, eyes huge, face pale and shiny with sweat. She was shivering violently, which I didn’t like. Her husband sat by her side, nervously glancing towards the machine that was monitoring his baby’s heartbeat. As I approached, Maura moaned and Jenny, the older of the two midwives, raised her up.

  ‘Come on now, Maura, push as hard as you can.’

  Maura’s face screwed up and she pushed as I took Jenny’s place at the foot of the bed. The baby’s head was visible but didn’t look as though it was coming out in the next few minutes. Which was what it needed to do. Maura was exhausted and the pain had become too much for her. She pushed, but it was a feeble attempt and as the contraction died away she fell back, whimpering. I glanced at the monitor. The baby’s heartbeat slowed noticeably.

  ‘How long has it been doing that?’ I asked.

  ‘About ten minutes,’ replied Jenny. ‘Maura’s had no pain relief apart from gas and air, she won’t let me cut her, she doesn’t want forceps and she doesn’t want a Caesarean.’

  I glanced at the desk. Maura’s birth plan, bound in red card, lay on it. I picked it up and flicked through. About four pages, closely typed. I wondered if anyone but the mother-to-be had actually read it. I certainly wasn’t about to.

  I stood by the bed and then reached out and stroked away the damp hair that had fallen across Maura’s forehead. It was the first time I had ever touched a patient in that way.

  ‘How are you feeling, Maura?’

  She moaned and looked away. Daft question. I took her hand.

  ‘How long have you been in labour?’

  ‘Fifteen hours,’ replied Jenny, on Maura’s behalf. ‘She was induced last night. At forty-two weeks.’ The last sounded slightly accusatory. No one wanted a pregnancy to last forty-two weeks, least of all me. By that stage the placenta is starting to deteriorate, sometimes seriously, and the percentage of stillbirths rises dramatically. I’d seen Maura a week ago and she’d been adamant she didn’t want to be induced at all. I’d let her go the full forty-two weeks at her insistence but against my better instincts.

  She jerked upwards for another contraction. Jenny and the student shouted encouragement and I watched the monitor. ‘Who’s the house officer?’ I asked the student.

  ‘Dave Renald,’ she replied.

  ‘Ask him to come in, please.’

  She scurried out.

  The contraction faded and one look at Jenny’s face told me we were making no progress down at the sharp end.

  I took hold of Maura’s free hand. ‘Maura, look at me,’ I said, forcing her to make eye contact. Her eyes were glazed but they held my own. ‘This has been an unusually painful labour,’ I said, ‘and you have done amazingly well to get this far.’ She had, too. Inductions were always more intense and few managed without an epidural. ‘But you have to let us help you now.’

  I could see from the monitor that another contraction was building. I was running out of time.

  ‘I’m going to give you a local anaesthetic and I’m going to try forceps. If that doesn’t work, we have to go straight into theatre for an emergency Caesarean. Now are you OK with that?’

  She looked back at me and her voice came out cracked. ‘Can you give me a minute to think about it?’

  I shook my head as the house officer and a nurse came into the room. In a bigger hospital, a paediatrician would usually be present at a forceps delivery, but here we had to make do with whoever was on duty. Jenny whispered something to the student and she scuttled out again to put theatre on alert.

  ‘No, Maura,’ I said. ‘We don’t have a minute. Your baby needs to be born now.’ She didn’t reply and I took her silence for acquiescence. I sat down. Jenny had the instruments all ready and began, without being asked, to lift Maura’s legs into s
tirrups. I administered the anaesthetic into Maura’s perineum and made a small cut to enlarge her vaginal outlet. I inserted the forceps and waited for the next contraction. As Maura pushed, I pulled, gently, gently. The head moved closer.

  ‘Rest now, rest,’ I instructed. ‘Next one’s the big one.’

  She began to push again and I pulled. Almost there, almost . . . the head was out. I loosened the forceps, handed them to Jenny and reached . . . Shit! An inch of grey membrane appeared – the umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck and I’d nearly missed it. I hooked one finger under it, pulling gently until I could loop it over the head and then, as I reached for the shoulders again, Maura gave one last push and they came out by themselves, followed by the rest of the baby. I handed the solid, slimy, unspeakably beautiful little body to Jenny, who took her up to meet her parents. There came the sound of sobbing and for a moment I thought it was me. I shook myself, wiped a sleeve across my eyes and delivered the placenta. The student – Grace, I remembered now, her name was Grace – helped me sew and clean our patient up. Her eyes were shining but she was quick and neat in everything she did. She’d make a good midwife.

  Over at the paediatrician’s table, the house officer had finished his checks.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said, handing the baby back to Maura.

  17

  I STAYED IN the delivery room for another fifteen minutes, making sure mother and baby were OK. Then an orderly came to take Maura for a shower and I had a quick wander round the ward to check on the rest of my patients. We weren’t expecting another birth before midweek so with a bit of luck it would be a quiet weekend. I decided I could be spared and headed for the exit.

  Jenny, the midwife, was coming back into the unit as I left.

  ‘Well done, Miss Hamilton,’ she said, and instantly I suspected sarcasm.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ I asked, hackles up.

  She looked puzzled. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘But before you arrived, I really thought I was going to lose that one. And I haven’t said that in a few years.’