S Bolton - Sacrifice

I phoned Dana's voicemail again and explained about the new runic meanings I'd found and about the local woman calling them the Trowie marks. Anxious not to run out of time on her answering system and speaking far too quickly, I ran through the various stories about trows and Kunal Trows and suggested she investigate any island cults with links to old legends. I left it at that, not mentioning Richard. It might be nothing more than bloody-mindedness on his part and, when it came to it, I was a bit reluctant to shop my husband's father.

Borrowing Elspeth's bicycle, I rode to Uyeasound and found the boatyard. A red-faced, red-haired islander in his late teens told me McGill had gone out for half an hour and led me inside the hangar where several boats, in various stages of repair or construction, were balanced on wooden piles. Our Laser lay against the wall in a far corner. A chunk of the bow was missing, the port side badly dented and scraped.

'You own this boat?' asked the lad.

I nodded.

He shifted from one foot to the other, looked at the boat, then at me. 'Insurance job, is it?'

I raised my head and looked at him. 'Sorry?'

He looked round at the wide double door, as if hoping help would come. It didn't; the two of us were alone.

'Are ye plannin' an insurance claim?' he muttered again.

'I suppose so,' I said. 'Why?'

'Ye'd better see Mr McGill,' he said, moving away from me.

'Wait a minute,' I called after him. 'What's the problem with an insurance claim?'

He paused, seemed to make up his mind, then walked back.

'Thing is,' he said, still without looking at me. 'Thing is, I wouldn't. We've had a lot just lately. Boat accidents. They always send someone. They investigate, you see, the insurance company. Find out what really happened.'

'What do you mean?' I said. 'The mast broke.'

Then he gave me that half-pitying, half-amused look we all use when we know someone is lying to us. And they know that we know. And we know that they know that we know.

Except I didn't.

I walked over to the boat. It was upturned but there was room to lift it and I did.

'Hey!' he shouted.

I shoved hard and it turned over. Now I was looking at the cockpit. Just an eight-inch stump remained where the mast had been. Most of the rigging was gone too but part of the main sail was still attached.

The boy was beside me now. He pointed to the mast stump. 'You make an insurance claim and you're going to end up in court,' he said. 'No one will believe that snapped. It was sawn through, to nearly halfway.'

I MADE IT BACK INTO TOWN AND HEADED OUT ALONG THE B9084, sick to the stomach at what I'd just learned. Our sailing accident had been nothing of the kind. The dinghy had been sabotaged. I remembered that my life jacket hadn't inflated and felt worse still. At the Belmont pier I had to wait the ten agonizing minutes it took for the ferry to arrive. All the while I was thinking, had I done the right thing? I had to get off Unst and this was the only way I knew. But they'd guess where I'd gone. They'd be waiting for me at the other dock.

The ferry arrived. The four waiting cars drove on and I followed. Two more cars arrived and I looked carefully at the occupants. No one I recognized. As the air filled with a pungent smell of diesel and the growl of the engines drowned out most other sounds, soft rain started to fall. I pulled my coat collar up and hunched forward, fixing my eyes on Yell, willing it to get closer and, at the same time, dreading the moment we arrived.

I had too much time to think, on that long and piecemeal journey back to the main island. Someone wanted me dead. I didn't need to ask why. I'd unearthed what was meant to stay hidden for all time. Had I left it at that, had I allowed the police to go through the motions of their investigation, I'd probably still be safe. But frustrated by their lack of progress, feeling an interest that was nothing short of personal, I'd interfered again and again. Without my search through the dental records, who would have dreamed of linking a mutilated corpse with a death from cancer? Without an identity the crime would never have been solved, but thanks to yours truly, someone had cause to fear. And now so did I.

From leaving the boatyard to arriving back on the main island, my thoughts remained resolutely self-centered. Then I remembered Dana. I stopped cycling and fumbled in pockets for my mobile. My brain was still functioning well enough to work out that I couldn't be the only one in danger, and that it wasn't just one potential assassin Dana and I had to worry about. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed a question not of who was involved but of who wasn't.

Something very dodgy had occurred when Melissa was admitted to hospital. Whatever Kenn Gifford claimed about being in New Zealand at the time, he still ran the place. He had to have been involved, but he couldn't have acted alone. The local police had gone through the motions of an investigation: from the start, Andy Dunn had gone out of his way to play down the murder, keep it out of the media, send Dana in the wrong direction. Stephen Gair had watched his wife die, had arranged her cremation, only to identify her body on a mortuary slab three years later. And, as I'd just discovered, someone on Unst had sawed through the dinghy's mast and sabotaged my life jacket. Just how many of them were there?

Not Dana, though. Dana had been as persistent and determined as I. If someone wanted me out of the way, she was a target too and I had to warn her. Trouble was, I didn't have my mobile. I'd left it at Richard and Elspeth's house.

I realized that I hadn't spoken to her since late yesterday morning. I'd tried and failed the previous evening to find her and again this morning. It hadn't worried me at the time but it was worrying me now.

Back on the main island I rode to Mossbank, a small town on the east coast where I had fifteen minutes to spare before the last bus of the day left. As I was folding up Elspeth's bicycle and tucking it into the luggage rack I caught a glimpse of a police car through the back window of the bus. The car was parked not twenty yards away and the driver, from what I could see, was closely watching the last passengers get on board.

The bus set off. For the first mile or so I couldn't help glancing behind every few minutes but there was no sign of the police car. After a while I started to relax and to feel, temporarily at least, safe. I didn't imagine even the most determined assassin would attack a dozen islanders on a public bus just to get at me. I was able to rest for an hour and eat a sandwich. By the time we arrived back in Lerwick I had the outline of a plan.

First, find Dana. I had to fill her in with what I'd learned since being on Unst and I had to warn her. Second, get off the islands. Go home briefly, collect clothes and important personal papers and get to the airport. Spend the night there if necessary but catch the first plane to London and then a train to Mum and Dad's house. Third, get some career-focused advice on what my options were. If I left the Franklin Stone now – claiming undue stress – what were my chances of getting a decent job? Four… I didn't really have a Four. Find a good divorce lawyer, maybe.

We pulled into Lerwick bus station just after four o'clock. I got off and unfolded the bicycle. And there was the police car again, tucked away behind another bus. Nothing I could do. I jumped on the bike and set off for Dana's house. I didn't have much hope of finding her there but, with any luck, my car would still be parked near by.

By the time I turned into the car park above Dana's house my neck was sore from the number of times I'd turned to check the road behind me, my chest was starting to feel tight and my head woozy. But I was cheered by the realization that Dana was home. Or at least, her car was. My own car was where I'd left it, and – I quickly checked – the keys were still in my coat pocket.