S Bolton - Sacrifice

We rounded a bend and to our left the hill became a cliff, towering above us. To our right, the land fell away, down towards Weisdale Voe, one of the biggest of the mainland water inlets. In the daylight, this was a well-known beauty spot; at night, without the richness of colour or the sharp contrast of light playing on land and water, the landscape looked empty and unfinished. The rocks were dark and alien; barren, as though incapable of supporting life. In spite of the twinkling lights down at the water's edge the land around us felt hostile.

As we walked on, I tried to make sense of what we'd discovered in the last couple of hours. Following Dana's lead, we'd found what appeared to be an illegal money trail: huge sums entering Stephen Gair's business accounts from unknown sources, much of it being forwarded to a Tronal account, only to be distributed again to prominent men on the islands; including my own husband. Where was all that money coming from? What sort of activity could generate such large amounts? And was there any possibility that we'd misinterpreted what we'd seen? That Duncan, Richard, even Kenn, weren't involved in Melissa's and Dana's deaths.

Half a mile on, I heard what I'd been dreading: the sound of a car. I pulled Charles tightly into the side of the road and behind me Henry, rather than Helen, did the same thing. I could see lights ahead. Charles started to fidget and I tightened the reins. 'Steady,' I muttered. 'Hold him steady,' I called over my shoulder. The car was almost level with us, we heard the sudden loss of acceleration as the driver saw us and moved his foot towards the brake. The car didn't stop but continued its way out west.

A quick word to reassure Helen and we were off again. Soon we reached the point where we could turn off on to a smaller road. Now we were heading almost due north along the B9075 to Weisdale. The chances of meeting a speeding car reduced, but not those of being heard and recognized. We had to get through the village quickly and I was going to risk a trot. Checking that Helen's stirrups were short enough, I reminded her to keep her heels down and tighten up contact on the reins. Then I encouraged Charles forward.

Henry drew level with us. I glanced over and gave Helen what I hoped would be an encouraging smile. She was rising to the trot, but rather overdoing it and missing a few beats. She'd ridden a bit, she'd said, but wasn't up to jumping or galloping. She was a hell of a trouper, though.

'Where are we going?' she asked, having to shout above the sound of the hoofs. It was a good sign that she felt relaxed enough to talk.

'We're heading north through the Kergord valley to Voe,' I answered. 'A friend of mine has a couple of horses there. She'll keep these two in her field until I can arrange to have them collected.'

'Is there road all the way?' she asked hopefully. We were passing Weisdale Mill and I could see light in the house next to it.

'No. We've got about half a mile of this road and then a farm track for another three-quarters. Then we're in open country.'

There was silence while she considered the implications of riding across country in the dark.

'Have you ridden this way before?'

I nodded. There seemed little point adding that on the one occasion I'd done it previously, it had been in daylight, with perfectly sound horses and an experienced local guide.

'How long will it take?'

'Couple of hours.'

'We should have brought food.'

I too was starving. I didn't want to think about when I'd last eaten. Except once I started I couldn't help it. About twelve hours ago, I reckoned: a chicken and mayonnaise sandwich on the bus. I was regretting my squeamishness over Dana's fridge.

Ahead of us reared dark shapes, rare enough in this landscape to seem strange. They were trees: the Kergord plantations, covering about eight to nine acres in total and possibly the only woodlands on Shetland; certainly the only ones I'd ever seen.

The sound we were making changed from the clatter of hoofs on a track to the crunching of dead leaves. Last time I'd ridden this way, my guide had told me how in late spring the woodland carpet is covered with tiny yellow celandines. I tried to make them out but the cloud and the tree cover made it impossible. A flapping and cawing above us made both horses jump. Rooks whirled in the sky, scolding us for waking them.

We'd reached the farm track and I slowed the horses to a walk as we were forced to navigate around a cattle grid. The brief trot had settled them and their pace was steadier.

The horses walked on and the hills rose up around us, casting their shadows across the valley as the night grew darker. I felt panic rising again and told myself to calm down. Horses had been used for transport at night for hundreds of years. Charles and Henry could deal with this, and so could I.

After a few minutes I judged Helen was relaxed enough to talk again.

'Well, I guess millions of pounds don't usually appear from nowhere without something dodgy going on. Any idea what?'

Helen risked taking her eyes off the path ahead. 'I've been think- ing about that,' she said. 'I wonder if they're selling babies. Maybe to wealthy couples from overseas, countries where private adoption is the norm and money changes hands. Most of the money we saw seemed to be coming from the United States.'

The same thought had occurred to me, but, knowing what I did about Tronal, it didn't seem possible. 'According to the records, only about eight babies are born there every year,' I said. 'They'd need more, wouldn't they, to generate that sort of income? And what about the babies who are supposed to be adopted locally? Where are they coming from?

'Eight babies, huh? A maternity clinic on a private island for eight babies a year? Seem likely to you?'

'No,' I said; that had never seemed even remotely likely.

We'd reached the end of the farm track. We had to go past a few farm buildings and we'd be in open country. At that moment the front door to the farmhouse was flung open and a man appeared. He was short and substantially overweight, close to seventy years old and dressed in a torn string vest and baggy grey jogging pants that hung low on his hips. His feet were bare and I guessed he'd risen from bed too quickly to find his spectacles; he was scowling and squinting, as though struggling to see us properly. A fact that caused me no small level of disquiet, given that he was staring at us down the barrel of a twelve-bore shotgun.

I WAS BROUGHT UP IN THE COUNTRY, MY FATHER AND BROTHERS were members of the local shoot, I'm even quite handy with a shotgun myself and I know the damage one of those things can do at close range.

It was a tense moment.

Helen held her right hand out in front of her. For a second, I thought it was a gesture of surrender.

'Police. Put your weapon down immediately, sir.' She was holding out her ID. Slowly, I dug my hand into my jacket pocket, found my hospital ID and brought it out. I held it up, confident that Jogging Pants would never be able to make out the details.

Far from sure, he lowered his shotgun. 'What's going on?'

'Night patrol, sir,' said Helen. 'Now, I need you to put your weapon on the ground. Right now, sir. Aiming a weapon at a police officer is a very serious offence.'

I had to bite my lip. Night patrol! He seemed to be buying it, though. His knees buckled under him and his shotgun slipped to the ground. With an effort, he straightened up.

'Will I just be phoning the local station?' he muttered.

'Certainly, sir,' said Helen. 'They'll need you to go in to sign a statement, so you may prefer to leave it till morning. And you should take in your shotgun licence. They'll need to check the serial number.'

I loved this woman. Although shotgun licences could be obtained reasonably easily, it was common knowledge that numerous farmers hadn't bothered.