Sacrifice

22

THE NEXT MORNING, RICHARD LEFT EARLY. FOR A RETIRED man, he spent a lot of time out of the house and I realized I had no idea where he went or what he did. Since the previous evening, though, we'd been distinctly frosty with each other and it didn't seem like a good time to ask. Shortly after breakfast, Elspeth left too on a shopping trip. She asked if I'd like to go with her but I truthfully pleaded a headache and tiredness and, after fussing a bit, she went. I waited for the sound of her car engine to fade and made straight for Richard's study, only to find the door locked.

I stood behind it for a moment, steaming. Then I ran upstairs. In my handbag I knew I'd find a few hairgrips. I grabbed four from the debris at the bottom and started bending them into shape.

I grew up with three brothers, all older than I, in a Wiltshire farmhouse three miles from the nearest village. After school they were my only companions. Consequently, I understand rugby, can keep score in cricket and explain the offside rule in soccer. I can name every bug and insect that crawls on British soil and can perform some pretty impressive stunts on a skateboard. I gleaned my early knowledge of sex from Playboy magazines and, coming to the point now, was pretty certain I could still pick a lock.

The lock was old, which helped. It was also a little loose in its casing, which didn't. It took me fifteen minutes. Inside the study, I went straight for the box file I'd noticed the evening before. It contained six copies of a magazine I'd never heard of: Ancient Scripts and Symbols, some photocopied pages from books and several dozen sheets of coarse paper, on which the runic symbols had been hand- drawn with explanatory paragraphs by each.

Three runic symbols had been carved into Melissa Gair. One was a streak of lightning, wasn't it? No – that was around the hearths. A kite – that was it – like a child's drawing of the bow on a kite string. I flicked through the sheets. There it was: Dagaz. The translation offered for its name was Harvest and its primary meanings were listed as Fruitfulness, Abundance, New Life. Harvest. Now why would someone carve that on a woman's body? Harvest is a medical term, used when an organ is removed for donation. Melissa's heart had been removed. Did Harvest refer to her heart – or to some- thing else? I scanned through the pages, looking for other familiar symbols. I couldn't picture the second rune but the word fish kept springing to mind and after a moment or so I found an angular fish shape, called Othila or Fertility. It was described as the symbol for Womanhood and Childbirth. Not too difficult to see the connection there.

The third rune had been simple, just two crossed lines. I found it: Nauthiz, or in English, Sacrifice. Its meanings were listed as Pain, Deprivation, Starvation.

I think I stared at the words for a very long time, long after they blurred over and I ceased to see them clearly. But if I closed my eyes they were still there. Pain. Deprivation. Starvation. What on earth was I dealing with here? And Sacrifice? What kind of monster carves words like those on a woman's body?

And what a difference. With Dana's library book, we'd interpreted the three runes as meaning Separation, Breakthrough and Constraint, and had seen little significance at all. According to Richard's script, though, the runes seemed decidedly more apt: Fertility – a woman able to bear children; Harvest – the new life emerging from her body; Sacrifice – the price she has to pay. I'd learned that the runic carvings on Melissa did have meaning and – very disturbingly – that my father-in-law knew about them and had chosen to keep quiet. I also realized Dana's library book hadn't been so far off. Constraint seemed to fit quite naturally in a group containing words like Sacrifice, Pain and Deprivation; likewise Breakthrough had connections to words like Harvest and New Life. It was just a question of where the focus and emphasis lay.

Something started niggling at me. There was more there if only I could see it; something new; something in the meaning of the words, something I was missing.

On a desk in a far corner stood a fax machine. I took the sheets of paper over to it, copied them and tucked them into the pocket of my jeans. Then I left the room, taking a few minutes to re-lock the door behind me.

I had to call Dana. She didn't answer her mobile or her home phone. Through directory enquiries I found the number of the Lerwick police station, but got her voicemail. While I was wondering what to do next, the phone rang. I answered and a male voice asked for Richard.

'It's McGill. Tell him his son's boat has been retrieved. It's down at my yard. I need to know what he wants me to do now.'

I promised to pass on the message and got the address of the boatyard. I'd put the receiver down before I realized it was really up to me to deal with it. The boat belonged to Duncan and me. Duncan and me. How much longer would I be able to say Duncan and me? I felt tears rushing up. No. Not now. I couldn't deal with it yet.

The boatyard man hadn't said whether it was a question of repair or scrap and I hadn't asked. I could go and look. Anything was better than hanging around with nothing to do and too much time to think.

I phoned Dana's voicemail again and explained about the new runic meanings I'd found and about the local woman calling them the Trowie marks. Anxious not to run out of time on her answering system and speaking far too quickly, I ran through the various stories about trows and Kunal Trows and suggested she investigate any island cults with links to old legends. I left it at that, not mentioning Richard. It might be nothing more than bloody-mindedness on his part and, when it came to it, I was a bit reluctant to shop my husband's father.

Borrowing Elspeth's bicycle, I rode to Uyeasound and found the boatyard. A red-faced, red-haired islander in his late teens told me McGill had gone out for half an hour and led me inside the hangar where several boats, in various stages of repair or construction, were balanced on wooden piles. Our Laser lay against the wall in a far corner. A chunk of the bow was missing, the port side badly dented and scraped.

'You own this boat?' asked the lad.

I nodded.

He shifted from one foot to the other, looked at the boat, then at me. 'Insurance job, is it?'

I raised my head and looked at him. 'Sorry?'

He looked round at the wide double door, as if hoping help would come. It didn't; the two of us were alone.

'Are ye plannin' an insurance claim?' he muttered again.

'I suppose so,' I said. 'Why?'

'Ye'd better see Mr McGill,' he said, moving away from me.

'Wait a minute,' I called after him. 'What's the problem with an insurance claim?'

He paused, seemed to make up his mind, then walked back.

'Thing is,' he said, still without looking at me. 'Thing is, I wouldn't. We've had a lot just lately. Boat accidents. They always send someone. They investigate, you see, the insurance company. Find out what really happened.'

'What do you mean?' I said. 'The mast broke.'

Then he gave me that half-pitying, half-amused look we all use when we know someone is lying to us. And they know that we know. And we know that they know that we know.

Except I didn't.

I walked over to the boat. It was upturned but there was room to lift it and I did.

'Hey!' he shouted.

I shoved hard and it turned over. Now I was looking at the cockpit. Just an eight-inch stump remained where the mast had been. Most of the rigging was gone too but part of the main sail was still attached.

The boy was beside me now. He pointed to the mast stump. 'You make an insurance claim and you're going to end up in court,' he said. 'No one will believe that snapped. It was sawn through, to nearly halfway.'