S Bolton - Sacrifice

'Sergeant, my wife is dead.'

Dana flinched, but I wasn't remotely surprised. The drawn, empty look that Joss Hawick wore so prominently is invariably seen on the faces of the bereaved. This man had been in mourning. Still was.

'I'm so sorry.' I spoke for the first time. 'Did she pass away recently?'

'Three years this summer.' Longer than I'd have guessed; this man wasn't easily coming to terms with his loss.

'Had you been married long?' I could sense Dana making impatient movements by my side. I ignored her.

'Just two years,' he said. 'Last Friday would have been our anniversary.'

I thought quickly. Today was Wednesday, the ninth of May. Friday, five days ago, had been the fourth of May. But the year didn't fit. This man's wife had died in 2004, not 2005. Because of the sea flood, Stephen Renney had been certain our victim hadn't been in the ground longer than two years and the Inverness team had backed him up.

'Mr Hawick.' It was Dana this time. 'The inscription on the ring refers to the fourth of May 2002. Was that your wedding day?'

Angry now, he looked from Dana to me. We were raking open wounds that hadn't even begun to heal properly.

'What is this about?' he demanded.

We were inside. His house, brightly coloured and trendily furnished, still looked like the home of a young, affluent couple but it smelled stale, the way houses of old people smell, how old people themselves sometimes smell. Layers of dust lay on the mantelpiece and on the window-sill behind us. He'd offered us a drink, which we'd declined, and had left the room to get himself one. Glancing round, I noticed two dirty glasses on the floor by my end of the yellow sofa and an ashtray full of cigarette stubs. The rug covering most of the wooden floor hadn't been vacuumed any time recently.

On the mantelpiece were several pewter figures of animals and a large photograph in a pewter frame. A younger, happier Joss Hawick beamed at the camera. At his side, white veil billowing around her head, was his wife. Kirsten Hawick had been a tall, attractive woman – with long red hair, falling in ringlets almost to her waist. I looked quickly at Dana. She'd seen the photograph already. She frowned at me, her unspoken instruction clear: keep quiet!

Hawick came back and sat down on a chair opposite us. That was one large Scotch he carried and it didn't look diluted. I realized my hands were shaking. I tucked them under my thighs, glad that Dana would be doing the talking. I felt an overwhelming urge to turn and look at the photograph again, but knew that would be the worst thing I could do.

'I'm sorry for your loss, sir,' she began.

He turned to me and I felt a stab of alarm.

'Why are you here? Are you about to tell me the hospital did something wrong?'

Dana spoke quickly, as though afraid the situation was getting out of control.

'Miss Hamilton has only been at the hospital six months. She knows nothing about the manner of your wife's death. May I ask you some questions?'

He nodded. And drank.

'Could you just confirm your wife's maiden name?'

'Georgeson,' he said. 'Kirsten Georgeson.' He drank again. More than a sip.

I glanced again at Dana. Her face was giving nothing away but she had to have registered that the names fitted. KG and JH. The date was right, too. I forced myself to look down at the carpet, worried my face would give me away. I'd watched enough detective programmes to know that the first suspect in a murder case is always the spouse. What I'd taken for grief on Joss Hawick's face might actually be guilt, not to mention fear of being found out. Dana and I could be alone in a house with a murderer. I looked at Dana again. If she was as worried as I, she wasn't showing it.

There was still, of course, the discrepancy of the year. The woman in my field had died sometime during 2005. Hawick claimed his wife had died in 2004.

'May I ask how and where she died?' Dana said, not taking her eyes off Hawick for a moment.

He looked at me again. 'In hospital,' he said. 'In your hospital.' He made it sound like an accusation. 'She'd been in a riding accident. Her horse was hit by a lorry just a couple of miles north of here. She was still alive when they got her to hospital but with very severe brain damage and a broken neck. We switched the machines off after three hours.'

'Who treated her?' I asked.

'I can't recall his name,' he replied. 'But he said he was the senior registrar. He said she had absolutely no chance of recovery. Are you about to tell me he was wrong?'

'No, no,' I said hurriedly, 'nothing like that. I do need to ask you something else, though; and I am truly sorry to add to your grief. Did your wife have a baby shortly before she died?'

He flinched. 'No,' he said. 'We were planning a family, but Kirsten was a good rider. She wanted to compete for a few years before giving up.'

Joss Hawick was pretty convincing. But he had to know I could check his story out in minutes.

Dana stood up. It was crunch time. I stood too.

'Tora,' said Dana, gesturing towards the door. I went quickly, almost jogging along the corridor, and grabbed at the front door, half expecting to find it locked. It opened and I stood there, allowing the wind from the voe to sweep into the house, making sure Dana joined me.

'One thing puzzles me,' he said as Dana and I stood in the door- way, she outwardly calm, I ready to bolt at any second.

'What's that, sir?'

'You said you'd found a ring. May I see it?'

Dana was a good liar. 'I'm sorry, sir, the ring is still at the station. But if your wife's ring is missing I can bring it round for you to identify. The inscription inside should make it very easy.'

Hawick shook his head. 'That's what I've been trying to tell you. It can't be Kirsten's.'

'Why not?'

'It was inscribed, but I knew it was tight on her finger and I didn't want it forced off. I asked that she be buried wearing it.'

I couldn't help it. 'Where?' I said. 'Where was she buried?'

He looked surprised and a little disgusted, as though the question was in poor taste. Which it was – but hell, I had an excuse.

'St Magnus's Church,' he said. 'Where we were married.'

'We should have brought two cars,' said Dana. 'Damn!' She started the engine and drove five hundred yards down the road, until we were just out of sight.

I fumbled in my bag and found my cell phone. Within minutes a local taxi was on its way to us. Dana pulled out a notebook and started scribbling.

'He's lying,' I said.

'I know.' She carried on writing. I glanced down at the page. She'd written Kirsten Hawick, nee Georgeson. Died summer 2004. Head injury. Franklin Stone Hospital. Senior Registrar in attendance.

'It's her,' I said.

'Possibly'

'You saw the photograph. How many women have hair that long? It's got to be her.' I couldn't stop talking.

'Tora, calm down. It was a small photograph. We can't be sure.' She scribbled something else. A number.

'This is my mobile,' she said, tearing the page out and handing it to me. 'Get to the hospital as soon as you can and check it. Don't speak to anyone else. I'll stay here until I hear from you.'

I nodded. 'Will you be OK?'

'Of course. I'm just going to sit in my car and watch.'

'Can you radio for back-up?'

She smiled. I was using language straight from a cop show.

'As soon as I hear from you. Let's just keep this to ourselves until we're sure.'

The taxi arrived shortly afterwards and I was off.

Fifty minutes later I called her mobile. She answered on the first ring.

'It's me,' I said. 'Can you talk?'

'Go ahead.'

I took a deep breath. 'Everything he told us is true.'

Silence. I thought I could hear the wind whistling around Scalloway Voe.

'What now?' I said.