S Bolton - Sacrifice

'Hang on… but… where do these women come from?'

She shook her head. All over the UK, even overseas. Typically, they're young career women, not ready to be tied down.'

'Don't such women just have terminations?'

'Tronal does those as well. But they say some women have ethical difficulties with abortion, even in this day and age. They didn't say as much, but I guess they get some of their custom from the nearby Catholic countries.'

I was still struggling with the idea of a maternity facility I knew nothing about. 'Who provides obstetric support?'

'They have a resident obstetrician. A Mr Mortensen. Fellow of your – what do you call it – Royal College?'

I nodded, but was far from happy. A Fellow of the Royal College of Obstetrics and Gynaecology? For fewer than a dozen births a year?

'Nice man, I thought,' continued Dana. 'He has two fully qualified midwives working with him.'

'What happens to the babies?' I asked, thinking that perhaps I already knew, that Duncan had been thinking about Tronal when we'd talked about adoption the other night.

'Most of them are adopted here on the islands,' said Dana, con- firming my guess.

'And you think the woman in my field could have been a Tronal woman? Maybe a mother who changed her mind about giving up her baby?'

'It's possible. The only women outstanding from your list gave birth there.'

I fell silent then, wondering about Tronal, why I'd been told nothing about it. It was a few seconds before I realized Dana was talking to me and I had to ask her to repeat herself.

'What does KT mean?'

'Sorry?'

'KT. I assume it's an abbreviation. It appeared on your list seven times. What does it mean?'

I'd forgotten about that too. I was beginning to realize that, for all my enthusiasm, I'd make a pretty poor detective. 'I don't know,' I had to confess. 'I'll check it out tomorrow.'

She fell silent again. I realized I needed the loo.

When I returned, she was miles away, so lost in thought I don't think she noticed my sitting down beside her. She was staring at the computer again, at what appeared to be an online telephone directory.

'What's up?' I said.

She looked up, startled, then back down at her screen. 'I've been trying to track down the two women you found today, the ones who got married on 4 May 2002. Julie Howard would be Julie Gewons now. If she's still alive, that is.' She flicked down a few screens, then stopped for a second. 'There's a Gewons family living in town. It's on my way back to the station. Want to stop by and check out how healthy Mrs Gewons is looking?'

'Absolutely'

We drove for ten minutes then pulled up outside a semi-detached house in a pleasant, modern cul-de-sac; the sort you see all over the UK, built with first-time buyers and young families in mind. I always think of them as happy, hopeful sorts of places, filled with boxed-up wedding presents and plans for the future. They make me feel both cosy and sad at the same time. A small tricycle lay on its side on the grass in front of the house.

Dana knocked. I stood slightly behind her. The door was opened by a young woman who looked around five months pregnant. A toddler in lilac pyjamas clutched her leg and played peek-a-boo at us. Something tense inside me released and I found myself grinning at the child.

'Mrs Gewons?' Dana held up her ID.

The woman looked puzzled, then alarmed.

'Yes,' she said, looking nervously from Dana to me.

'I'm sorry to disturb you so late in the day, but we've found a wedding ring with initials inside that match yours and your husband's. Have you lost a ring? With an inscription inside?'

As Dana was speaking I caught a glimpse of Julie Gewons's left hand. It was bare, but I thought I knew why.

Mrs Gewons looked down at her own hand. 'I don't think so,' she said. 'I haven't been wearing it for a few weeks. My hands have swollen.' She looked uncertain.

'Is it possible you could check you still have it?' asked Dana.

Mrs Gewons nodded and then backed into the house, pushing the toddler along with her. The door closed.

Dana and I waited. After a minute or two Julie Gewons returned. In her hand she held a thin, gold band, not dissimilar to my own. As we left, I saw her trying to push it past the swollen knuckle of her third finger.

WHEN SHE REACHED HER CAR DANA STOPPED. SHE STARED at the lock on the driver's door but made no attempt to open it. I stood watching her for a second or two, feeling foolish. She seemed to have forgotten I was there.

'Ahem,' I said theatrically.

She looked up. 'Sorry.' She pressed the unlock button on her key- pad and the vehicle beeped at her cheerfully.

'I'll come by your house later,' she said. 'On my way back to the station.'

'You're not going straight back?'

She frowned, as though my curiosity was misplaced, impertinent somehow. We might have reached an uneasy truce today but this was her business and, no two ways about it, I was interfering.

'I need to check out the Hawicks,' she said. 'I think this ring could be a red herring. I want to get it out of the equation.'

'Want some company?' I ventured, not expecting for a moment that she would say yes.

She frowned again, then nodded. 'Yes, thank you,' she said. 'That would be good.'

We took her car. There were two Hawick families to check out; the first lived just off the A970 on the outskirts of Lerwick. One look at Kathleen Hawick and we knew we could cross her off the list. She was in her fifties, plump, and that worn, gold wedding band, barely visible beneath the folds of flesh, was not coming off her finger before she died. When we thanked her and left she went happily back to the game show we could hear playing inside the house.

The other Hawick family lived at Scalloway, the old capital of Shetland, a much smaller town about six miles due west of Lerwick. The road was quiet and we arrived in just over fifteen minutes.

Dana pulled over and took out her computer. She tapped away for a few seconds and then we were looking at a map of Scalloway.

'You're pretty handy with this thing,' I said, as she passed it on to my lap and we set off again. 'Left at the bottom. Whatever happened to the old notebook and pencil?'

'Still the weapons of choice at Lerwick nick.'

'Second on the right,' I instructed. We slowed and turned into the street where a J. Hawick lived. It ran directly along the coastline on the south side of the town. The Hawicks had a great view but little protection from the elements and the moment we left the car, the wind raced towards us like a battle charge. As we waited on the doorstep of the house, both Dana's hair and my own were whipped up and tangled together. Mr Hawick, when he opened the door, must have thought two dishevelled mermaids had come to pay him a visit.

From his physique and his hair colour, I guessed Joss Hawick to be in his mid to late thirties, but his face suggested someone a good decade older. He had the appearance of someone suffering from in- somnia or maybe long-term stress. His white work shirt was slightly grey and hadn't been particularly well ironed.

Dana went through the routine of showing her ID and introducing herself and me. Hawick looked only mildly interested and not remotely concerned: like a man with nothing left to lose.

'What can I do for you?' he asked. He was Scottish but not an islander. From some way south, I thought; Dundee maybe, or Edinburgh.

Dana explained about the ring and its engraving. Before she'd even finished speaking he was shaking his head.

'Sorry, Sergeant, wasted trip. Now if you'll excuse me.'

He began to back away; the door started to close on us.

Dana was having none of that. 'Sir, this is important. Are you certain that your wife is not missing a ring? Could we just check with her?'