His eyes left me and fixed on the pile of books I’d left on the carpet.
‘My books are very carefully arranged. I find it difficult if someone displaces them. I’ll be happy to find you anything you need.’
I bent down and picked up the scattered books.
‘Leave them, please. Elspeth has made tea.’ I knew he wasn’t going to budge until I left, so I walked out.
22
THE NEXT MORNING, Richard left early. for a retired man, he spent a lot of time out of the house and I realized I had no idea where he went or what he did. Since the previous evening, though, we’d been distinctly frosty with each other and it didn’t seem like a good time to ask. Shortly after breakfast, Elspeth left too on a shopping trip. She asked if I’d like to go with her but I truthfully pleaded a headache and tiredness and, after fussing a bit, she went. I waited for the sound of her car engine to fade and made straight for Richard’s study, only to find the door locked.
I stood behind it for a moment, steaming. Then I ran upstairs. In my handbag I knew I’d find a few hairgrips. I grabbed four from the debris at the bottom and started bending them into shape.
I grew up with three brothers, all older than I, in a Wiltshire farmhouse three miles from the nearest village. After school they were my only companions. Consequently, I understand rugby, can keep score in cricket and explain the offside rule in soccer. I can name every bug and insect that crawls on British soil and can perform some pretty impressive stunts on a skateboard. I gleaned my early knowledge of sex from Playboy magazines and, coming to the point now, was pretty certain I could still pick a lock.
The lock was old, which helped. It was also a little loose in its casing, which didn’t. It took me fifteen minutes. Inside the study, I went straight for the box file I’d noticed the evening before. It contained six copies of a magazine I’d never heard of:Ancient Scripts and Symbols, some photocopied pages from books and several dozen sheets of coarse paper, on which the runic symbols had been hand-drawn with explanatory paragraphs by each.
Three runic symbols had been carved into Melissa Gair. One was a streak of lightning, wasn’t it? No – that was around the hearths. A kite – that was it– like a child’s drawing of the bow on a kite string. I flicked through the sheets. There it was: Dagaz. The translation offered for its name was Harvest and its primary meanings were listed as Fruitfulness, Abundance, New Life. Harvest. Now why would someone carve that on a woman’s body? Harvest is a medical term, used when an organ is removed for donation. Melissa’s heart had been removed. Did Harvest refer to her heart – or to something else? I scanned through the pages, looking for other familiar symbols. I couldn’t picture the second rune but the word fish kept springing to mind and after a moment or so I found an angular fish shape, called Othila or Fertility. It was described as the symbol for Womanhood and Childbirth. Not too difficult to see the connection there.
The third rune had been simple, just two crossed lines. I found it: Nauthiz, or in English, Sacrifice. Its meanings were listed as Pain, Deprivation, Starvation.
I think I stared at the words for a very long time, long after they blurred over and I ceased to see them clearly. But if I closed my eyes they were still there. Pain. Deprivation. Starvation. What on earth was I dealing with here? And Sacrifice? What kind of monster carves words like those on a woman’s body?
And what a difference. With Dana’s library book, we’d interpreted the three runes as meaning Separation, Breakthrough and Constraint, and had seen little significance at all. According to Richard’s script, though, the runes seemed decidedly more apt: Fertility – a woman able to bear children; Harvest – the new life emerging from her body; Sacrifice – the price she has to pay. I’d learned that the runic carvings on Melissa did have meaning and – very disturbingly – that my father-in-law knew about them and had chosen to keep quiet. I also realized Dana’s library book hadn’t been so far off. Constraint seemed to fit quite naturally in a group containing words like Sacrifice, Pain and Deprivation; likewise Breakthrough had connections to words like Harvest and New Life. It was just a question of where the focus and emphasis lay.
Something started niggling at me. There was more there if only I could see it; something new; something in the meaning of the words, something I was missing.
On a desk in a far corner stood a fax machine. I took the sheets of paper over to it, copied them and tucked them into the pocket of my jeans. Then I left the room, taking a few minutes to re-lock the door behind me.
I had to call Dana. She didn’t answer her mobile or her home phone. Through directory enquiries I found the number of the Lerwick police station, but got her voicemail. While I was wondering what to do next, the phone rang. I answered and a male voice asked for Richard.
‘It’s McGill. Tell him his son’s boat has been retrieved. It’s down at my yard. I need to know what he wants me to do now.’
I promised to pass on the message and got the address of the boatyard. I’d put the receiver down before I realized it was really up to me to deal with it. The boat belonged to Duncan and me. Duncan and me. How much longer would I be able to say Duncan and me? I felt tears rushing up. No. Not now. I couldn’t deal with it yet.
The boatyard man hadn’t said whether it was a question of repair or scrap and I hadn’t asked. I could go and look. Anything was better than hanging around with nothing to do and too much time to think.
I phoned Dana’s voicemail again and explained about the new runic meanings I’d found and about the local woman calling them the Trowie marks. Anxious not to run out of time on her answering system and speaking far too quickly, I ran through the various stories about trows and Kunal Trows and suggested she investigate any island cults with links to old legends. I left it at that, not mentioning Richard. It might be nothing more than bloody-mindedness on his part and, when it came to it, I was a bit reluctant to shop my husband’s father.
Borrowing Elspeth’s bicycle, I rode to Uyeasound and found the boatyard. A red-faced, red-haired islander in his late teens told me McGill had gone out for half an hour and led me inside the hangar where several boats, in various stages of repair or construction, were balanced on wooden piles. Our Laser lay against the wall in a far corner. A chunk of the bow was missing, the port side badly dented and scraped.
‘You own this boat?’ asked the lad.
I nodded.
He shifted from one foot to the other, looked at the boat, then at me. ‘Insurance job, is it?’
I raised my head and looked at him. ‘Sorry?’
He looked round at the wide double door, as if hoping help would come. It didn’t; the two of us were alone.
‘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 uns
teady, 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.
Sacrifice Page 21
