S Bolton - Sacrifice

'Who were you calling?' he asked.

'Dana,' I said, wondering if now was a good time to start acquiring a taste for single malt. One Melissa Gair: two very different deaths. How could one person die twice?

Duncan closed his eyes briefly. He looked sad, rather than angry, which made me feel guilty – which made me feel angry again. Given everything that was going on up here, why should I, of all people, be made to feel guilty?

'I do wish you'd leave it,' he said softly, in a tone that suggested he knew I wouldn't. From the corner of my eye, I saw Elspeth glance at Richard, but neither asked what it was, exactly, I was supposed to leave. I guessed they already knew.

Over Duncan's shoulder I spotted something that I suppose I must have seen several times, but had never really thought about before. I walked over and with one index finger began to trace the outline.

The fireplace in the sitting room of Richard and Elspeth's house is huge. It must measure six feet in length and be about four feet deep. The central grate is about two feet square and the base of the chimney a similar dimension. It has a terrific draught and the fires it creates on high days and holidays are small bonfires. I wasn't looking at the fire, though – a relatively modest one for a spring evening – but at the stone lintel that ran across the top of the hearth. About eight feet long, seven inches high, supported on either side by strong stone pillars. Carved into the granite of the lintel were shapes I recognized: an upright arrow, a crooked letter F, a zigzag like a flash of lightning. They were repeated several times, sometimes appearing upside-down, sometimes inverted, like a mirror image, and an angular pattern had been carved around the edge of the lintel. The whole effect was more elaborate but still bore a striking resemblance to the carvings in our cellar at home. And the five Viking runes from our own fireplace that Dana and I had puzzled over were all here.

'You've spoken to Sergeant Tulloch yourself, Richard,' I said, tracing the shape of the rune I was pretty certain meant Initiation. 'She needed your advice on some runes carved on the body I found.'

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elspeth wince.

'Yes, I remember,' said Richard, speaking slowly as he usually did. 'She'd already found a book on the subject. I told her I had nothing to add to the interpretation offered by the author. I referred her to the British Library.'

And a whole heap of good that would have done poor Dana, stuck up here on Shetland. I simply couldn't believe my father-in- law had nothing useful to say on a subject so integral to the islands' history. Was he joining the general conspiracy to keep Tora's little nastiness under wraps? I realized that if Melissa's murder was connected to the hospital, as seemed highly likely, then as a former medical director Richard Guthrie might have a strong interest in muffling the facts. I started to wonder if the instinct that had sent me to Unst for my personal safety had been entirely sound.

'These are the same as the carvings in our cellar,' I said, wondering how Richard would deal with a straight question. 'What do they mean?'

'I'll gladly lend you a book in the morning.'

'Initiation,' I said, my finger still tracing the outline of the rune.

Richard joined me at the hearth. 'Maybe you don't need a book.'

'Why would someone carve the rune for Initiation into the hearth of a house?' I asked. 'It makes no sense.'

He looked down at me and I had to steel myself not to step backwards. He was a tall man, built on a very large frame. His physical presence, along with a formidable intellect and quick wit, had always made him immensely intimidating. I'd never crossed swords with him before and I could feel my heart rate starting to speed up.

'Nobody really knows what these runes mean,' he said. 'They date back thousands of years and the original meanings and usage have almost certainly been lost. The book Sergeant Tulloch had offered one set of interpretations. Others exist too. You simply take your pick.' As though bored with the subject he sighed and moved towards the door. 'Now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going to bed.'

'Good idea,' said Elspeth, getting to her feet. 'Do you two need anything before you go up?'

'You don't look much like your dad,' I said, as Duncan started to undress.

'You've said that before,' he replied, his voice muffled by the sweater he was pulling over his head.

'He's much bigger, for a start,' I said. 'And wasn't he blond when he was young?'

'Maybe I take after my mother,' said Duncan, unbuttoning his jeans. He was still annoyed with me.

I thought about it. Elspeth was short and, not to put too fine a point on it, dumpy. There was no immediate resemblance to Duncan that I could think of, but the flow of genes is notoriously unpredictable and you never know quite what human cocktail each act of reproduction is going to kick up.

'Are you going to shower before you come to bed?' asked Duncan, and at last I'd found someone honest enough to admit I smelled like a skunk in mating season. I showered for a long time and when I got back to the bedroom Duncan was asleep. Five minutes later, mere seconds before I too drifted off, it occurred to me that whilst Richard Guthrie might bear little resemblance to his son, he bore quite a lot to Kenn Gifford.

I WAS AWOKEN BY LIGHT, LOTS OF IT, FLOODING THE ROOM AND coaxing me out of sleep. The curtains of our east-facing window were open and Duncan stood by the bed with a steaming mug of tea.

'You awake?'

I looked at the tea. 'Is that for me?'

'Yup.' He put it down on the bedside table.

'I'm awake.' I was amazed at how much better I felt. There really is nothing like a decent night's sleep.

Duncan sat down on the bed and I smiled at him. I'm a sucker for tea in bed.

'Wanna come sailing?' he asked. He was already dressed.

'Now?'

'Bacon sandwiches in the clubhouse,' he tempted.

I thought about it. Spend the morning hanging around the house, searching for polite things to say to Elspeth, trying to avoid a row with Richard, or…

'You feel the need…' I said to Duncan.

He jumped up from the bed. 'I feel the need for speed!' he finished. We slapped a high five.

Twenty-five minutes later we were at the Uyea clubhouse, tucking into bacon sandwiches washed down with strong, milky Nescafe and looking out over Uyea Sound to-

'My God, that's it!' I said, between mouthfuls.

'What?' mumbled Duncan. He was already on his second sandwich, fully kitted up and fastening his lifejacket.

'Tronal island,' I said. 'There's a maternity clinic there. And an adoption centre.'

'Come on,' said Duncan, getting to his feet. 'We have an hour and a half before it pours down.'

Directly above us the sky was as blue as a robin's egg but out over the ocean, several miles beyond Yell, low clouds hung ominously. The wind was strong, about a force five, and coming in an easterly direction. Duncan was right: the storm was on its way.

'It can't be much more than quarter of a mile away,' I said, my eyes still fixed on Tronal as we pushed the dinghy down the slipway.

No reply.

'Can we go?' I said as we reached the water's edge and Duncan began to lift the boat off its trailer.

'No, we bloody well can't,' he replied. 'For a start, it's private land and the navigation's a bugger. There are rocks that'll rip the hull off before we get near.'

Duncan couldn't stop me looking, though, as we sped away from the jetty, he at the helm and I controlling the jib. I realized I must have seen Tronal a dozen times or more but had never really registered it. I don't think I'd even realized it was an island. The coastline of Shetland undulates and twists so much that it's often difficult to tell what's attached to the land you are on and what isn't.