S Bolton - Sacrifice

'You're only saying that because the hospital has come up smelling of lavender. If there were any dirt still clinging to you and yours you'd be patting me on the head, making worried noises and murmuring about sedatives.'

He fixed me with a stare. 'Richard is still in custody.'

Shit, I'd walked right into that one. Would I ever learn to engage my brain before my mouth opened?

'Sorry. I should have thought of that.'

And then that big warm hand was on my upper arm and I wasn't making a sound.

'You've dealt with more this past week than most do in a lifetime. Richard can look after himself.' He turned to leave and there was a cold space on my arm.

'Kenn…'

He turned in the doorway.

'I' m sorry.'

He raised one eyebrow.

'About suspecting you,' I added.

'Accepted. And I'm still thinking about it.'

'About what?'

'About what I'm going to do with you.' He grinned at me and left the room.

I sat down. 'Shit!' I said out loud. And there I'd been thinking all my problems were solving themselves.

I went downstairs. A couple of my third-trimester ladies were kind enough to say they'd missed me at the last clinic. But the Tronal business was still preying on my mind, so as soon as we broke for lunch, I grabbed a sandwich and went back up to my room. From my bag I dug out the pieces of paper that had started it all: the record of deliveries for the Shetland District Health Authority.

Let it go, Tora, said a voice in the back of my head; the faint, slightly wistful voice that speaks for the sensible, grown-up part of me. Unfortunately, I'd never really learned to pay attention to that voice and I wasn't about to start now. Once again, I counted up the Tronal deliveries. Four. Four in a six-month period meant around six to ten a year. If around half a dozen were adopted locally, that just didn't leave enough to sell overseas and make any sort of money.

Where the hell had Stephen Gair been getting his babies from? And how on earth could the sort of state-of-the-art maternity facility that had been described to me be feasible for just eight births per annum? The equipment and the staff would be standing around doing nothing for most of the year. There must be more babies being born at Tronal than were recorded on my stats. But how could a birth not be registered?

Dana had also mentioned terminations, but that made little sense. Terminations are available everywhere in the UK; why on earth would significant numbers of women travel all the way to Tronal for what they could get in their hometown?

If only I could go with Helen to Tronal. I'd know the questions to ask, be able to spot anything that didn't fit, far better than she could. But it was impossible; if any sort of trial came out of all this, I would be a key witness. I couldn't keep interfering in the official investigation.

I started going through the list one more time.

The first thing that jumped out at me were those blessed initials. KT. Keloid Trauma: problems arising from previous perineum scarring. I flicked to another screen and typed 'Keloid Trauma' into the Google search engine. Nothing, but the term had been coined to describe a condition particular to Shetland so maybe it hadn't yet made it on to the world wide web. I went into the hospital archives and ran a similar search. Nothing. I started checking all the KT entries again. First of April, a baby boy, born on Papa Stour. Then, on 8 May, another boy, born here at the Franklin Stone. On 19 May, a third boy – of course, they were all boys. But the sex of the baby couldn't possibly have an impact upon perineum scarring, could it? On 6 June, Alison Jenner had had a little boy on Bressay; later in June another delivery at the Franklin Stone.

Hang on a minute. That name meant something. Alison Jenner. Where had I heard that before? Jenner, Jenner, Jenner. Shit, it had gone.

Stephen Renney was in his windowless office, eating a sandwich and drinking Fanta from a can. He sensed me standing in his doorway, looked up and then started making those slightly embarrassed, fidgety movements we all make when we've been caught eating alone. As though eating were some sort of not-quite-respectable indulgence instead of the most natural thing in the world.

'Sorry,' I said, giving the time-honoured response, and looking slightly embarrassed myself, as though I'd caught him on the loo.

'Not at all,' he responded, ridiculously forgiving me. He stood up, motioned to a chair. I took it.

'I wanted to ask you something. About Dana Tulloch.'

His forearms were on the desk and he leaned forward. I could smell tuna fish on his breath.

'Mr Gifford said you'd found no traces of any sort of drug in her system and-'

'Miss Hamilton…' He leaned forward some more and I tried not to back away; it smelled as though he'd been eating cat food.

'I know you can't discuss specifics with me and I really don't want to put you in a difficult position, but-'

'Miss Hamilton…'

'Please, just give me a second. I've been speaking to an anaesthetist friend of mine this morning. She mentioned some drugs that would incapacitate someone but that wouldn't normally be tested for in a post-mortem. I just wondered if you-'

'Miss Hamilton.' Stephen Renney had raised his voice. 'I didn't carry out Miss Tulloch's post-mortem.'

'Oh!' I said. Had Gifford mentioned Stephen Renney or had I just assumed?

'I'll get a copy of the report, of course, but I don't think it's come through just yet. I can check for you.'

'So who did?' I demanded, manners out the window.

He frowned at me. 'I never actually saw Miss Tulloch. She was only here for a couple of hours and I was in meetings. She was taken to Dundee. I understand her next of kin, a policewoman, requested the transfer. The PM was carried out in Dundee.'

'Of course, I'm sorry.' Helen hadn't mentioned it, but there was no real reason why she should. It certainly made sense that she'd want Dana's post-mortem to be carried out by people she knew and trusted.

'Is there anything else I can help you with?'

Well, I know a dismissal when I hear one. I shook my head, thanked him again and left.

Back in my office there was an email from Gifford asking for my help in theatre that afternoon. He had a full list himself and a patient with a ruptured appendix had been admitted that morning. It would save him rearranging his list if I could do it. I'm not qualified for general surgery but the appendix was well within my region of expertise. I checked my messages – one from Duncan, the rest all non-urgent – and went down to theatre.

The patient was a thirty-year-old male, fit and healthy. I opened him up, fumbled around for a few minutes and removed the offending piece; swollen like a drum, no wonder he was in pain. Just as I finished closing and the patient was being wheeled out to recovery, Gifford came in. He was still gowned up and his gloves were covered in blood. I glanced down. So were mine. The other staff had left theatre and we were alone. He unhooked his mask from one ear.

'Will you have dinner with me?'

I left my mask in place. 'When?'

He shrugged. 'Tonight?'

I managed to look him straight in the eye. 'How kind. I'll see if Duncan's free.'

He reached out and took the mask from my face. As he did so, his gloved fingers brushed my cheek and I couldn't help the shudder. He saw it, of course.

'I'll ask again.'

I wondered if I had blood on my face. 'I'll email you the hospital's policy on sexual harassment.'

He laughed. 'Don't bother. I wrote it.'

He stood still for a moment, looking at me, and from beneath the harsh, antiseptic smells of theatre came a scent so warm and familiar it made me want to step closer, breathe it in, catch hold of his clothes and press them to my face. Then he turned and left and the scent was gone. I found I was shaking. The scrub nurse came back into the room and started collecting up instruments. I thanked her and left, praying I wouldn't bump into Gifford on the way back to my room.