S Bolton - Sacrifice

Next in the pile was Shetland Folklore by James R. Nicholson. Again, some pages had been marked with Post-it notes. Then I found British Folklore, Myths and Legends by Marc Alexander. The title on the bottom of the pile was familiar, although I hadn't seen a copy before. I flicked open the hardback cover and saw that it was a library book; very recently taken out judging by the return date stamped inside. It was the book that I'd found several references to in Richard's study, the one that might tell me more about the Kunal Trows. Dana had taken my comments about local cults seriously. The book held a lot of Post-it notes. I sat on the bed and started to read.

The first story to have caught Dana's attention was that of a macabre discovery of a large number of human bones during building work on Balta. Locals had muttered about an ancient burial ground but the bones (all from full-grown adults) had been discovered in no order, just flung together, and there had been no signs of memorial stones. On the accompanying Post-it, Dana had written: Were bones female? Is story true? Can date be ascertained?

On a later page I read about a rock that rises out of the sea near Papa Stour, known locally as the Frow Stack or the Maidens' Skerry. At the time the author was writing, the remains of a building could be seen on the rock. Local rumour held that the Frow Stack was used as a prison for women who 'misbehaved themselves'. Another rock, the Maiden Stack, with a very similar story attached to it, could be found on the east side of Shetland. Dana's commentary read: Island stories of women being imprisoned. Any human remains found on either rock?

A few pages further on and she'd found another story of unorthodox graves: a great number of small mounds on the island of Yell. The whole hillside, according to local tradition, was covered in graves and people avoided the spot. Dana's notes suggested increasing frustration. When? she had written. Dana had wanted facts and evidence, real leads she could follow up with meticulous police work. The book was only offering stories. Interesting stories, though. If the author was right, several times on these islands, hidden and unconsecrated mass graves had been discovered. I wondered how many more there might be. And I was growing more certain by the minute that Melissa had not lain alone on my land.

I lost all track of time as I read on through the books Dana had marked with Post-it notes, learning more and more about the strange and sometimes ghastly history of the islands. I found numerous other stories: of young women, children, even animals being stolen by Trows, their semblances left behind only to die shortly afterwards. The cynical amongst us would claim, of course, that the semblances were nothing of the kind, that the deaths had been of natural (or, more likely, human) causes and that the Trows had had nothing to do with it. One could argue, and half of me was tempted to, that the Trows had taken the blame for an awful lot of human mischief on these islands over the years. But still, the sheer number of stories impressed me. Over and over again, the same theme appeared: someone was taken, a semblance was left behind, the semblance died.

Of course, I didn't believe in semblances. If deaths had been faked in order to conceal kidnappings – which was basically what all these stories boiled down to – then it had been achieved by natural means. I wasn't going down any supernatural route.

Trouble was, I wasn't going down any route. The words were starting to jump around on the page and I was done with thinking for one day. I put the book I was struggling to read down on the floor beside me and allowed my eyes to close.

In my dream, I closed the back door on Duncan and the sound of wood slamming into the door frame rang out around the house. I woke up. It hadn't been a dream. Someone had entered the house. Someone was moving around, softly but quite audibly, downstairs.

For a second I was back in the nightmare world of five nights ago. He'd come back. He'd found me. What the hell was I going to do? Lie still, don't move, don't even breathe. He won't find you.

Ridiculous. Whoever was here, he'd probably had the same idea I had. He was looking for something and soon his search would bring him to the place where Dana worked.

Hide.

I felt beneath me. The bed was a divan. There was no wardrobe in the room. Nowhere someone of my size could hope to go unnoticed. Especially if it was me he was looking for.

Escape.

Only sensible option, really. I sat up. My car keys were on the desk. As I picked them up they chinked together.

I reached for the window. The handle wouldn't move. Of course Dana would lock her windows. She was a police officer. I looked closer. It was double-glazed. Breaking it might be possible but would make too much noise. I had to go down. Get past him some- how.

I reached into my holdall and rummaged around until I found the extra bit of protection I'd brought from home. Grasping it tightly in my right hand I walked to the door, pressed the handle softly and opened it. From downstairs came a faint bump. I crossed the hall, mentally blessing Dana for putting carpets on her stairs and land- ing. Downstairs were hardwood floors and ceramic tiles. But I still had to get downstairs.

At the top of the stairs I paused and listened. Faint sounds were coming from behind the closed kitchen door. I peered over the banister. There were two doors leading from Dana's kitchen, not counting the external back door: the first, the one I was looking at, led into the hall; the second into the living room. I was planning to go that way, throw something back into the hall to distract whoever it was and then, when he went to investigate, slip quietly through the kitchen and out the back door. Once outside I could climb the garden wall and run like hell back to the car.

Five more steps, six. My right hand was sticky with sweat. I checked the trigger. Loosened the safety catch.

The bottom step creaked.

I crossed the hall and into Dana's living room. It was darker than it should have been. Someone had pulled the curtains. I stopped. Listened. My right hand was up now, in front of me, but it was shaking.

Then something hit me square in the back and I went down hard.

I LAY ON THE FLOOR, THE SIDE OF MY HEAD PRESSED AGAINST Dana's oak floorboards, my right hand empty.

The weight pressing me down moved. I jabbed my elbow back hard and heard someone grunt. Then that solid weight was on me again. My right arm had been captured and was being twisted behind me. I squirmed and bucked and kicked backwards with both feet. My first three blows made contact and then the weight shifted forward.

'Police! Keep still!'

Yeah, right! One of the hands holding my right arm was released, presumably to grab a hold of my left hand and get cuffs on me. But he wasn't strong enough to hold me with one arm.

I took a large breath – tricky because with that weight on my chest my lungs could barely function – and twisted round. The figure on top of me slipped sideways. I was on my feet. So was my opponent. We stared at each other. In the darkness I could make out a tall figure; short, blond hair; neat, regular features. I resisted the temptation to say 'Dr Livingstone, I presume,' because I now knew who I'd been scrapping with.

'Who the hell are you?' she said.

'Tora Hamilton,' I answered. 'A friend of Dana's. She gave me a key.'

It occurred to me that that might not have been the wisest response, but the woman seemed to relax.

'I work at the hospital,' I added. 'I've been helping Dana with one of her cases. The murder. The body was found in my field. I found her.'

I stopped gabbling.

The woman nodded her head. 'She told me.'

I was breathing normally again. My head was sore but had stopped spinning.