S Bolton - Sacrifice

'Dana, I'm sorry, but I really need to get home.'

She looked up sharply. 'Will Duncan be there?'

'No,' I said, surprised. 'He's not back till this evening.' Which was probably just as well. I didn't want him to see me in this state.

'You can't go.'

'Umm?'

'You're safer here. Go upstairs. Have a shower if you like and then use the spare bedroom. When we know he's back I'll sign your release papers.'

I didn't move. I hardly knew this girl. I was far from sure I trusted her and I was letting her take control of me. She must have seen something in my face because her own expression sharpened. 'What?' she said.

I sat back down. I told her everything Gifford had said about her. She listened, her eyebrows flickered once or twice, but otherwise there was no reaction. When I finished, her mouth tightened. She was visibly angry but I didn't think it was with me.

'My father died three years ago,' she said. 'I lost my mother when I was fifteen and have no siblings so I inherited the whole of his estate. He wasn't a rich man but he'd done OK. I got about four hundred thousand pounds. I bought the car, the house and the things you can see around you. It's nice to have some money but I'd much rather have my dad.'

She took a deep breath.

'I did not leave Manchester in disgrace. I left with an excellent record and first-rate references. I transferred to Dundee because I wanted to work in Scotland. I left Dundee because I began a relationship with another officer – a much more senior one – and we agreed it wasn't good for the force.'

She stood up, still annoyed, and crossed the room to her stereo system. She ran a finger along the glass case then inspected her fingertip for dust. I doubted she'd see any. Then she looked back at me.

'As for not fitting in here, well, they got that bit right. These islands are run by a small and very powerful clique of big, blond men who all went to the same schools, the same Scottish universities, and whose families have known each other since the Norwegian invasions. Just think about it, Tora, think about the doctors you know at the hospital, the head-teachers at the schools, the police force, the magistrate, the chamber of commerce, the local councils.'

I didn't need to think about it. I'd noticed more than once how many of the islanders fitted into the same distinctive physical type.

'Oh, the place is crawling with Vikings. One of its few redeeming features, I've always thought.'

'Try and name me more than half a dozen prominent islanders who are not local men,' said Dana, ignoring my feeble attempts at humour. 'They all know each other, they all socialize, they do business together, offer each other jobs and the best contracts. These islands are running the biggest jobs-for-the-blond-boys club I have ever come across and when, once in a blue moon, an outsider does manage to break in, he or she gets obstructed, delayed and frustrated every step of the way. Most outsiders, sooner or later, get driven out. It's happening to me and I suspect it's happening to you too. Sorry to go on a bit, but I happen to get pretty pissed off about it.'

'Clearly,' I said.

'I am not in debt, nor am I anorexic. I eat quite a lot but I work out most evenings. And yes, I shop a lot too. It's called displacement activity. I don't particularly like it here and I miss Helen.'

'Helen?' I said stupidly.

'DCI Helen Rowley. The officer in Dundee with whom I was – am still when we get the chance – having a relationship. Helen is my girlfriend.'

And no, I admit, I had definitely not seen that one coming.

'Now, you can stay down here and help me do some pretty arduous police work, you can go home and risk someone disturbing your rest for a third time in three days, or you can go upstairs and get some sleep.'

Not really too difficult a decision. I turned to leave the room.

When I awoke, it was to the sound of voices. Two voices, to be precise: Dana's and that of a man. I sat up. Dana's spare bedroom was small but as beautifully decorated and tidy as the rest of her home. A blind was drawn but behind it I thought I could see bright sunshine. There was no clock in the room. I walked to the window and raised the blind. Lerwick Harbour and the Bressay Sound. It was about midday, I guessed, which meant I'd slept for five hours.

I felt better. I was groggy from too little sleep and aching in all sorts of places but the horrible nausea had gone.

I sat down to slip on my shoes. Bookshelves lined one wall of the small room. The desk in the corner held computer equipment that looked state-of-the-art. Beside the monitor stood a framed photograph of Dana in Ph.D. graduation robes, standing next to a tall man with grey hair and fair skin. I was pretty certain it had been taken at one of the Cambridge colleges.

Dana and her guest were still talking quietly. I walked softly downstairs, but they must have heard me coming because the voices stopped when I reached the bottom step and silence heralded my arrival into the room below. They were sitting, but first the man, then Dana, stood as I walked in. He was in his early forties, maybe slightly above average height, with pale-blue eyes and thick hair of the colour known as salt and pepper. He was smartly dressed for a Saturday, possibly with lunch at the golf club in mind. He was attractive and – maybe more importantly – he looked nice. There were lots of lines around his eyes that suggested he laughed a lot.

'This is Stephen Gair,' said Dana.

I turned to Dana in astonishment.

'Melissa's husband,' she added, quite unnecessarily. I'd got it; I just couldn't believe it. She gestured towards me. 'Tora Hamilton.'

He held out his hand. 'I've been hearing a lot about you. How are you feeling?'

'Mr Gair knows you've been working all night,' said Dana. 'We've been waiting for you to wake up before…'

She looked at him, as if uncertain what to say next.

'Before we go and get my wife's X-rays checked,' answered Stephen Gair. Dana visibly relaxed.

'My, you have been busy,' was just about all I could manage. Was it really going to be that easy?

Somehow, without my noticing it, we'd all sat down again. The other two looked as though they were waiting for me to say something. I glanced from one to the other, then looked at Stephen Gair.

'Has Dana told you…?' Jesus, what had Dana told him? That I'd dug his wife up out of my field six days ago?

'Shall I summarize?' he offered.

I nodded, thinking, Shall I summarize? What kind of talk was that for a man who'd just been given such devastating news?

'Last Sunday,' he began, 'a body was found on your land. My sympathies, by the way. The body was that of a young woman who was murdered – rather brutally, I understand, although I haven't been given the details – some time during the early summer of 2005. You've been using your position at the hospital to conduct a comparison of dental records. Your doing so was unethical and probably illegal but entirely understandable given your involvement in the case. Now, you believe you've found an exact match in the dental records of my late wife, Melissa. Am I right so far?'

'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.