Sacrifice (13 page)

‘They have a resident obstetrician. A Mr Mortensen. Fellow of your – what do you call it – Royal College?’

I nodded, but was far from happy. A Fellow of the Royal College of Obstetrics and Gynaecology? For fewer than a dozen births a year?

‘Nice man, I thought,’ continued Dana. ‘He has two fully qualified midwives working with him.’

‘What happens to the babies?’ I asked, thinking that perhaps I already knew, that Duncan had been thinking about Tronal when we’d talked about adoption the other night.

‘Most of them are adopted here on the islands,’ said Dana, confirming my guess.

‘And you think the woman in my field could have been a Tronal woman? Maybe a mother who
changed her mind about giving up her baby?’

‘It’s possible. The only women outstanding from your list gave birth there.’

I fell silent then, wondering about Tronal, why I’d been told nothing about it. It was a few seconds before I realized Dana was talking to me and I had to ask her to repeat herself.

‘What does KT mean?’

‘Sorry?’

‘KT. I assume it’s an abbreviation. It appeared on your list seven times. What does it mean?’

I’d forgotten about that too. I was beginning to realize that, for all my enthusiasm, I’d make a pretty poor detective. ‘I don’t know,’ I had to confess. ‘I’ll check it out tomorrow.’

She fell silent again. I realized I needed the loo.

When I returned, she was miles away, so lost in thought I don’t think she noticed my sitting down beside her. She was staring at the computer again, at what appeared to be an online telephone directory.

‘What’s up?’ I said.

She looked up, startled, then back down at her screen. ‘I’ve been trying to track down the two women you found today, the ones who got married on 4 May 2002. Julie Howard would be Julie Gevvons now. If she’s still alive, that is.’ She flicked down a few screens, then stopped for a second. ‘There’s a Gevvons family living in town. It’s on my way back to the station. Want to stop by and check out how healthy Mrs Gevvons is looking?’

‘Absolutely.’

We drove for ten minutes then pulled up outside a semi-detached house in a pleasant, modern cul-de-sac; the sort you see all over the UK, built with first-time buyers and young families in mind. I always think of them as happy, hopeful sorts of places, filled with boxed-up wedding presents and plans for the future. They make me feel both cosy and sad at the same time. A small tricycle lay on its side on the grass in front of the house.

Dana knocked. I stood slightly behind her. The door was opened by a young woman who looked around five months pregnant. A toddler in lilac pyjamas clutched her leg and played peek-a-boo at us. Something tense inside me released and I found myself grinning at the child.

‘Mrs Gevvons?’ Dana held up her ID.

The woman looked puzzled, then alarmed.

‘Yes,’ she said, looking nervously from Dana to me.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you so late in the day, but we’ve found a wedding ring with initials inside that match yours and your husband’s. Have you lost a ring? With an inscription inside?’

As Dana was speaking I caught a glimpse of Julie Gevvons’s left hand. It was bare, but I thought I knew why.

Mrs Gevvons looked down at her own hand. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been wearing it for a few weeks. My hands have swollen.’ She looked uncertain.

‘Is it possible you could check you still have it?’ asked Dana.

Mrs Gevvons nodded and then backed into the house, pushing the toddler along with her. The door closed.

Dana and I waited. After a minute or two Julie Gevvons returned. In her hand she held a thin, gold band, not dissimilar to my own. As we left, I saw her trying to push it past the swollen knuckle of her third finger.

9

WHEN SHE REACHED
her car Dana stopped. She stared at the lock on the driver’s door but made no attempt to open it. I stood watching her for a second or two, feeling foolish. She seemed to have forgotten I was there.

‘Ahem,’ I said theatrically.

She looked up. ‘Sorry.’ She pressed the unlock button on her keypad and the vehicle beeped at her cheerfully.

‘I’ll come by your house later,’ she said. ‘On my way back to the station.’

‘You’re not going straight back?’

She frowned, as though my curiosity was misplaced, impertinent somehow. We might have reached an uneasy truce today but this was her business and, no two ways about it, I was interfering.

‘I need to check out the Hawicks,’ she said. ‘I think this ring could be a red herring. I want to get it out of the equation.’

‘Want some company?’ I ventured, not expecting
for a moment that she would say yes.

She frowned again, then nodded. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be good.’

We took her car. There were two Hawick families to check out; the first lived just off the A970 on the outskirts of Lerwick. One look at Kathleen Hawick and we knew we could cross her off the list. She was in her fifties, plump, and that worn, gold wedding band, barely visible beneath the folds of flesh, was not coming off her finger before she died. When we thanked her and left she went happily back to the game show we could hear playing inside the house.

The other Hawick family lived at Scalloway, the old capital of Shetland, a much smaller town about six miles due west of Lerwick. The road was quiet and we arrived in just over fifteen minutes.

Dana pulled over and took out her computer. She tapped away for a few seconds and then we were looking at a map of Scalloway.

‘You’re pretty handy with this thing,’ I said, as she passed it on to my lap and we set off again. ‘Left at the bottom. Whatever happened to the old notebook and pencil?’

‘Still the weapons of choice at Lerwick nick.’

‘Second on the right,’ I instructed. We slowed and turned into the street where a J. Hawick lived. It ran directly along the coastline on the south side of the town. The Hawicks had a great view but little protection from the elements and the moment we left the car, the wind raced towards us like a battle
charge. As we waited on the doorstep of the house, both Dana’s hair and my own were whipped up and tangled together. Mr Hawick, when he opened the door, must have thought two dishevelled mermaids had come to pay him a visit.

From his physique and his hair colour, I guessed Joss Hawick to be in his mid to late thirties, but his face suggested someone a good decade older. He had the appearance of someone suffering from insomnia or maybe long-term stress. His white work shirt was slightly grey and hadn’t been particularly well ironed.

Dana went through the routine of showing her ID and introducing herself and me. Hawick looked only mildly interested and not remotely concerned: like a man with nothing left to lose.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked. He was Scottish but not an islander. From some way south, I thought; Dundee maybe, or Edinburgh.

Dana explained about the ring and its engraving. Before she’d even finished speaking he was shaking his head.

‘Sorry, Sergeant, wasted trip. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

He began to back away; the door started to close on us.

Dana was having none of that. ‘Sir, this is important. Are you certain that your wife is not missing a ring? Could we just check with her?’

‘Sergeant, my wife is dead.’

Dana flinched, but I wasn’t remotely surprised.
The drawn, empty look that Joss Hawick wore so prominently is invariably seen on the faces of the bereaved. This man had been in mourning. Still was.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I spoke for the first time. ‘Did she pass away recently?’

‘Three years this summer.’ Longer than I’d have guessed; this man wasn’t easily coming to terms with his loss.

‘Had you been married long?’ I could sense Dana making impatient movements by my side. I ignored her.

‘Just two years,’ he said. ‘Last Friday would have been our anniversary.’

I thought quickly. Today was Wednesday, the ninth of May. Friday, five days ago, had been the fourth of May. But the year didn’t fit. This man’s wife had died in 2004, not 2005. Because of the sea flood, Stephen Renney had been certain our victim hadn’t been in the ground longer than two years and the Inverness team had backed him up.

‘Mr Hawick.’ It was Dana this time. ‘The inscription on the ring refers to the fourth of May 2002. Was that your wedding day?’

Angry now, he looked from Dana to me. We were raking open wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal properly.

‘What is this about?’ he demanded.

We were inside. His house, brightly coloured and trendily furnished, still looked like the home of
a young, affluent couple but it smelled stale, the way houses of old people smell, how old people themselves sometimes smell. Layers of dust lay on the mantelpiece and on the window-sill behind us. He’d offered us a drink, which we’d declined, and had left the room to get himself one. Glancing round, I noticed two dirty glasses on the floor by my end of the yellow sofa and an ashtray full of cigarette stubs. The rug covering most of the wooden floor hadn’t been vacuumed any time recently.

On the mantelpiece were several pewter figures of animals and a large photograph in a pewter frame. A younger, happier Joss Hawick beamed at the camera. At his side, white veil billowing around her head, was his wife. Kirsten Hawick had been a tall, attractive woman – with long red hair, falling in ringlets almost to her waist. I looked quickly at Dana. She’d seen the photograph already. She frowned at me, her unspoken instruction clear: keep quiet!

Hawick came back and sat down on a chair opposite us. That was one large Scotch he carried and it didn’t look diluted. I realized my hands were shaking. I tucked them under my thighs, glad that Dana would be doing the talking. I felt an overwhelming urge to turn and look at the photograph again, but knew that would be the worst thing I could do.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir,’ she began.

He turned to me and I felt a stab of alarm.

‘Why are you here? Are you about to tell me the hospital did something wrong?’

Dana spoke quickly, as though afraid the situation was getting out of control.

‘Miss Hamilton has only been at the hospital six months. She knows nothing about the manner of your wife’s death. May I ask you some questions?’

He nodded. And drank.

‘Could you just confirm your wife’s maiden name?’

‘Georgeson,’ he said. ‘Kirsten Georgeson.’ He drank again. More than a sip.

I glanced again at Dana. Her face was giving nothing away but she had to have registered that the names fitted. KG and JH. The date was right, too. I forced myself to look down at the carpet, worried my face would give me away. I’d watched enough detective programmes to know that the first suspect in a murder case is always the spouse. What I’d taken for grief on Joss Hawick’s face might actually be guilt, not to mention fear of being found out. Dana and I could be alone in a house with a murderer. I looked at Dana again. If she was as worried as I, she wasn’t showing it.

There was still, of course, the discrepancy of the year. The woman in my field had died sometime during 2005. Hawick claimed his wife had died in 2004.

‘May I ask how and where she died?’ Dana said, not taking her eyes off Hawick for a moment.

He looked at me again. ‘In hospital,’ he said. ‘In your hospital.’ He made it sound like an accusation. ‘She’d been in a riding accident. Her horse was hit by
a lorry just a couple of miles north of here. She was still alive when they got her to hospital but with very severe brain damage and a broken neck. We switched the machines off after three hours.’

‘Who treated her?’ I asked.

‘I can’t recall his name,’ he replied. ‘But he said he was the senior registrar. He said she had absolutely no chance of recovery. Are you about to tell me he was wrong?’

‘No, no,’ I said hurriedly, ‘nothing like that. I do need to ask you something else, though; and I am truly sorry to add to your grief. Did your wife have a baby shortly before she died?’

He flinched. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We were planning a family, but Kirsten was a good rider. She wanted to compete for a few years before giving up.’

Joss Hawick was pretty convincing. But he had to know I could check his story out in minutes.

Dana stood up. It was crunch time. I stood too.

‘Tora,’ said Dana, gesturing towards the door. I went quickly, almost jogging along the corridor, and grabbed at the front door, half expecting to find it locked. It opened and I stood there, allowing the wind from the voe to sweep into the house, making sure Dana joined me.

‘One thing puzzles me,’ he said as Dana and I stood in the doorway, she outwardly calm, I ready to bolt at any second.

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘You said you’d found a ring. May I see it?’

Dana was a good liar. ‘I’m sorry, sir, the ring is
still at the station. But if your wife’s ring is missing I can bring it round for you to identify. The inscription inside should make it very easy.’

Hawick shook his head. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It can’t be Kirsten’s.’

‘Why not?’

‘It was inscribed, but I knew it was tight on her finger and I didn’t want it forced off. I asked that she be buried wearing it.’

I couldn’t help it. ‘Where?’ I said. ‘Where was she buried?’

He looked surprised and a little disgusted, as though the question was in poor taste. Which it was – but hell, I had an excuse.

‘St Magnus’s Church,’ he said. ‘Where we were married.’

‘We should have brought two cars,’ said Dana. ‘Damn!’ She started the engine and drove five hundred yards down the road, until we were just out of sight.

I fumbled in my bag and found my cell phone. Within minutes a local taxi was on its way to us. Dana pulled out a notebook and started scribbling.

‘He’s lying,’ I said.

‘I know.’ She carried on writing. I glanced down at the page. She’d written
Kirsten Hawick, née Georgeson. Died summer 2004. Head injury. Franklin Stone Hospital. Senior Registrar in attendance.

‘It’s her,’ I said.

‘Possibly.’