S Bolton - Sacrifice

I wondered how she was getting on. Before leaving home that morning, I'd caught a few minutes of the Scottish news on TV. There had been no mention of my discovery. On Shetland, one hears frequent grumbles about events on the islands not being considered important enough to make the national Scottish news. I'd always thought it more likely to be a matter of economics than any- thing else; it would be expensive to fly a TV crew out to Shetland. Even so, you'd think they'd make a bit more effort for a murder.

I stared up and down the list: 140 women, 140 babies.

My mind started wandering, in the way minds do when they come up against a brick wall and are not quite sure how to get around it. Out of nowhere, I heard Duncan talking about more babies being available for adoption on Shetland than in other parts of the UK. I thought for a moment, wondering how I could check quickly. What sort of mother typically puts her baby up for adoption? Almost invariably, it's the young, unmarried ones.

I left the hospital's intranet site and accessed the Internet, typing 'General Register Office for Scotland' into the search engine. The site appeared immediately and I called up the latest annual report. Table 3.3 offered details of live births outside marriage, together with the age of the mother, in Scotland. I'm not great with stats, but even for me it was pretty clear. Teenage pregnancy rates were quite low on the islands. In fact, for the year I was looking at, they had been nearly 40 per cent lower than in the rest of Scotland. Wherever Duncan's glut of babies was coming from, it wasn't from our teenage mothers.

I went back to my list of 2005 babies. How could 140 names be narrowed down? If DS Tulloch's theory about the body being a local woman was correct – on the grounds that no sensible murderer would transport a body across water just to bury her on my land – then our friend had probably gone into labour here at the Franklin Stone Hospital.

Unfortunately, that didn't help much. Most Shetlanders live on the main island and consequently most births take place here at the hospital. As I went down the list, I saw the occasional appearance of one or other of the smaller islands – Yell, Unst, Bressay, Fair Isle, Tronal, Unst again, Papa Stour. Too few for ruling them out to make a real difference.

Tronal? Now that was a new one on me. All the other islands I knew. They all had medical centres, resident midwives and regular antenatal clinics, presided over by yours truly. But Tronal I'd never even heard of, let alone visited. And yet it seemed to play host to several deliveries each year. I counted. Tronal appeared four times. That probably meant between six and eight births a year, more than some of the other smaller islands. I made a mental note to find out about Tronal as soon as I could.

Forcing myself back to the task in hand, I looked at the list again. It was giving me the name and age of the mother; the date, time and place of delivery; the sex, weight and condition (i.e. live or still birth) of the baby. And something else. The initials KT appeared at the end of one entry. I tried to think of any condition or obstetric outcome that might be abbreviated to KT and couldn't. I glanced up and down the list. There it was again. KT, at the end of an entry recording the birth of a baby boy born in May on Yell. And again; a home birth here in Lerwick in July.

I glanced at my watch. Time up. I was gathering up my things when there was a knock on the door.

'Yes, hello!' I called out. The door opened and I looked up to see Bossy Tulloch. Her trouser suit was slate-grey in a crisp, smooth fabric. Not a crease in sight.

'Good morning,' she said, giving me the once-over and making me feel grubby, at least two seasons out of fashion and as oversized as a carthorse next to a prize-winning Arabian filly. 'Got a minute?' she added, still waiting in the doorway.

'I have a ward round,' I said. 'But we're supposed to run at least ten minutes late.'

She raised her eyebrows. I was starting to hate it when she did that.

'It's written into our contract,' I went on. 'Creates the impression of being busy and important; gives the patients a sense of proportion; stops them getting too demanding.'

She didn't smile.

'I understand my field will be cleared today after all,' I said.

'Yes, I understand that too,' she replied, walking over to my desk. She picked up the list. I strode over, meaning to take it back, even if it made me look childish.

'I came for this,' she said.

I held out my hand. 'I can't just hand over patient information. I have to ask you to put it down.'

She looked at me, put the papers back down on my desk, tucked her hands behind her back and carried on reading them. I reached out. She held up a hand to stop me.

'From what I've seen already, most of this is a matter of public record. I can get it elsewhere. It just seemed quicker to come to you. I thought you might want to help.'

Well, she had a point. Personal dislikes aside, she and I were supposed to be on the same side. I picked up the list anyway. We stood, looking at each other. She was a good four inches shorter than I but, somehow, I didn't think height alone was going to intimidate her.

'How many?' she asked.

'Hundred and forty,' I replied.

'All of them healthy Caucasian women in their twenties and thirties?'

'Pretty much.'

'No big deal. It's what we do all the time. Should only take a few days. But if you make me go elsewhere or get a court order, it could waste a day or more.'

'I really should check before I-'

'Tora,' she said, using my name for the first time. 'I've spent ten years in the police force, a good part of that in the inner cities. But nothing could have prepared me for what we saw on the autopsy table last night. I want to go back to my office and get my team making phone calls to check these women are alive and busy looking after their two-year-old children. And I really want to do that now.'

I handed her the list. Something in her face softened as she took it from me.

'You can discount the ones who had Caesarean sections,' I said, wondering why I hadn't thought of it before. 'She didn't have a scar.' Well, not that sort of scar anyway.

'Anything else?' she asked.

I shook my head. 'Not immediately. Have the Inverness pathologists finished yet?'

She didn't reply and I looked pointedly at the list in her hand.

'Pretty much,' she said. 'We've also spoken to some experts on the impact of peat on organic material like linen. Dr Renney was spot on about spring or summer 2005 being the time she died. This list is important.'

She thanked me and made for the door. 'Can I pop round to your house later?' she asked, glancing back. 'I need to see your runes.'

I suppressed a smile and nodded. I told her I'd be home about six and she left. I was logging off my computer when I noticed I had new mail. It was from Kenn Gifford.

To all staff.

Following the commencement of the murder inquiry by the Northern Constabulary, all staff are reminded not to give interviews to either police or media, or to release any hospital information without prior approval from me.

In the words of the immortal bard – oh shit.

My ward rounds were soon over and I collected my coat and grabbed a sandwich from the cafeteria. On the way to the lift I sensed someone behind me and turned. It was Kenn Gifford. He nodded at me but didn't speak. The lift arrived and we walked in. The doors closed. Still he said nothing.

There are some people, I've noticed, who are totally un-self conscious, able to remain silent in company without showing the slightest sign of embarrassment. Gifford was one of them. He didn't even look at me as the lift went down, just gazed at the lift buttons, seemingly lost in thought. It was one of the big, hospital lifts, designed to take trolleys, but there were just the two of us inside. Now, I get nervous in confined spaces with just one other person; I feel the need to make conversation, even with a perfect stranger. Three people is fine, I can leave the other two to talk, but when it's just me and one other I have to say something. Which is probably why I chose that moment to 'fess up.