S Bolton - Sacrifice

'We'll be on our way now, sir. I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Please give my apologies to your family. Sergeant, will you get the gate?'

I rode forward, jumped down and pushed open the gate that led from the farmyard into the valley. Helen rode past without looking at me. I pushed the gate shut and jumped back into the saddle. I trotted forward to catch up and we walked in silence until I judged we were out of earshot. Looking back, I saw that Jogging Pants had gone inside and closed the door but the light still shone from an upstairs window. As I watched, it flicked off.

'You couldn't have made me an inspector?' I asked.

She glanced over and seemed to force a smile. 'Night patrol,' she said. 'Oh God, Dana would've loved that.'

And then she crumpled, from the top down. First her face collapsed, then her shoulders sagged forward, then she fell until she was leaning against Henry's mane. Her body jerked in great, racking sobs and she began making the sound you only ever hear from someone suffering the deepest grief: a primitive noise, halfway between a howl and a scream. Henry shuddered in protest. Charles, the more highly strung of the two, whinnied and started to jump sideways. I steadied him and, leaning over, took Helen's reins from her hands and pulled them forwards over Henry's head. We walked on, I leading Henry, as Helen's sobs gradually grew softer and less insistent. After a while she was quiet. I glanced back; she was wiping her face on her sleeve. She looked like she'd aged ten years.

'Sorry,' she muttered.

'No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be putting you through this. You can't possibly be up to it.'

She straightened in the saddle. 'Was Dana murdered yesterday?'

I thought very carefully before I answered her. I wasn't playing at Nancy Drew any more. This was real and very, very serious. 'Yes,' I said, 'I think she was.'

'I'm up to it. Can I have my reins back?'

We walked on for a few minutes. On either side the hills loomed high above us, deep shadows against a charcoal sky. We were about as far from the sea as it is possible to get on Shetland – which isn't far, three or four miles at most – but it seemed the landscape had changed when we entered the valley: the scents became those of land rather than sea, the musty dampness of peat, the ripeness of fresh vegetation. The wind had lost some of its ferocity, just buffeting us gently every few minutes, lest we get complacent.

Every now and again the moon appeared from behind a cloud and in its light the ground sparkled as though showered with broken glass. We were walking over flints gripped tight by the land, and they shone around us in the moonlight.

We came to the first of several streams that we had to cross. As I urged Charles over, he tugged his head forward and bent to drink. Henry copied him.

'Is this water drinkable?' asked Helen.

I was pretty parched too. The wine I'd drunk earlier had had its usual dehydrating effect.

'Well, these two seem to think so,' I said, jumping down. Helen followed suit and the four of us drank the ice-cold, slightly peaty- flavoured water. Helen washed her face; I splashed copious amounts over my head and felt better immediately. Still starving hungry, though.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something moving towards us; something too large to be a sheep. I cried out, every nerve-ending in my body prickling. Helen was beside me in a second. Then we both relaxed. The one shape had become several and they were all heading our way. They were a dozen or more native Shetland ponies. I'd forgotten this valley was home to a large herd.

Horses are immensely social creatures and the herd, spotting two strangers of their own kind, had come up to say hello. They seemed not remotely perturbed at finding two humans as well. Two of the bolder ones started nuzzling my legs; one even allowed Helen to bend down and pet her.

'You know it could catch on,' I said, watching Henry rub muzzles with a grey mare that could only have been nine hands high.

'What could?' said Helen.

'Mounted police on the Shetlands,' I said. 'There's a whole mass of terrain that's totally inaccessible by road and no shortage of native livestock.'

'Worth thinking about,' agreed Helen. 'Course the mounties would have to be midgets.'

'You'd need to rethink the height rule.'

'Maybe special dispensation for Shetland. How many of these ponies do you have up here?'

'Not sure anyone knows. They breed like rabbits, apparently. A lot are sold – to pet centres, model farms, that sort of place. And as children's mounts. They're incredibly popular. Exported all over the wor-' I stopped, realizing what I was saying.

'Like Shetland babies?' asked Helen.

'Possibly,' I said, 'except

'Where are they all coming from?' she prompted.

I nodded.

Helen frowned, appeared to think for a moment. 'Let's just say there are more babies being born there than appear on your register,' she said at last. 'Let's say that Stephen Gair, Andy Dunn, Kenn Gifford… all the men whose records we checked earlier…'

'It's OK,' I interrupted. 'You're allowed to mention Duncan and Richard.'

She gave me a half smile. 'Suppose they are involved, making a whole packet of money from it, and somehow Melissa Gair found out, threatened to go to the police. That would be motive enough, wouldn't it, to get her out of the way?'

'I guess.'

'But why not just kill her, stage an accident? Why fake her death and keep her alive for so long?'

'Because Stephen Gair knew she was pregnant. He wanted his child.' I explained Dana's theory about the boy Stephen Gair called his stepson being, in fact, his own son by Melissa. Helen seemed to shrink a little inside herself at the mention of Dana, but managed to hold it together.

'Hell of a risk,' she said. 'And why cut out her heart? Why those weird symbols on her back? Why bury her in your field, for God's sake? Why not just dump her out at sea?'

'Because they have to be buried in sweet, dark earth,' I whispered, not really intending that she should hear.

She gave me a look. Are we back to trolls again? I can't do trolls right now. We need to get moving.'

She gathered up her reins and lifted her foot to the stirrup. She was mounting from the wrong side but I didn't say anything. Henry would probably go with it. Then she stopped.

'Do you want me to hold him?' I offered.

'Shut up,' she hissed. 'Listen.'

I listened. Soft whinnying from the ponies, gentle slurping as several of them drank, whistling of the wind down from the hill tops. And something else. Something low, regular, mechanical. Not a sound of nature. Something insistent; something approaching.

'Shit!' Helen threw the reins forward over Henry's head and started pulling him towards a steep overhang of rock at the valley's edge.

'Come on,' she urged. The noise was getting louder. The ponies could hear it now and didn't like it. Several of them kept breaking away from the group, sprinting off and then back again. Helen had reached the outcrop. I made it a few seconds later. We backed close to the rock, pulling the horses up against us. We held their heads and tried to keep them still as we waited for the helicopter to approach.

'The farmer phoned the police after all,' I whispered, as though people in a helicopter still half a mile away could hear us.

'More likely they found your car,' said Helen. 'Does everyone know you have horses?'

I thought about it. Duncan, of course, would know immediately that the horses were missing, but he was off the islands. Gifford! Gifford knew. And Dunn, of course. In fact, pretty much the entire Shetland police force. Richard. Yes, just about everyone knew I had horses.

The helicopter was close now and we could see the searchlight, a huge beam of brightness lighting up the valley. I tightened my hold on Charles. The Shetlands, seeking security in numbers, had all followed us to the overhang. Unlike Charles and Henry, though, they were far from still: they pushed and bustled each other, jumping around and squabbling in their efforts to stay as close as possible to the bigger horses.