On the third stair up there was a gold ring.
I stood, staring at it. It was a wide band, with some sort of pattern etched around the upper and lower circumferences. Gifford, I wondered briefly, but Gifford hadn't left the kitchen all the time he'd been here. In any case, this ring hadn't been worn for some time; it was caked in dried mud.
I bent down to pick it up. Some of the mud flaked away, a sizeable piece with a definite indentation down one side. I sat down and took off one of my boots. Hunter boots have a distinctive pattern on the underside and the piece of mud that had fallen away from the ring seemed a pretty good match. The ring must have spent the last few days stuck to the underside of my boot. My running up the stairs earlier or, more likely, my falling down them had dislodged it.
I felt a bolt of panic. I'd been wearing these boots when I'd found the body last Sunday but had taken them off before entering the house to get a knife. The police forensics team had taken away the trainers I'd replaced them with, but I'd forgotten all about the boots. I'd seriously fucked up a major investigation.
It's her ring. That's what they were looking for in the field the other night.
I sat there, thinking hard. I really didn't want this ring to be connected in any way to my lady from the field. For one thing, I found it highly disturbing that I'd been walking round with a piece of her jewellery stuck to the underside of my foot. For another, if someone had been looking for it, then whoever killed her was, without question, still on the islands.
Suddenly, I was nervous. I stood up, listening for sounds in the house, as though someone might be creeping up on me even now. Then I walked back into the kitchen and closed the back door. I even considered locking it. Instead I went to the kitchen sink and ran about two inches of lukewarm water. I dropped the ring into it, waited a few seconds then rubbed it between my palms. I dried it on a tea towel and held it up to the light. Without really thinking, I slipped it on to the third finger of my left hand. It wouldn't go past the knuckle; it had been made for slim fingers.
The body I'd seen on the morgue trolley was that of a slim woman. Was I now looking at her ring? When I'd cut open her linen shroud, pretty much all my attention had been on the horrific chest wound. If a ring had fallen off her left hand, I could have stood on it without noticing.
Well, her ring or not, I had to let Bossy Tulloch know immediately. Naturally, she'd be furious with me. Not only had I been responsible for carrying a crucial piece of evidence away from a crime scene and delaying its discovery by several days, but I'd even gone as far as to wash away the surrounding mud. I'd pretty much driven a cart and horses through the forensic evidence.
I put the ring down on the kitchen worktop and crossed to the phone. As I started to dial the sun flashed in through the window, making the ring gleam. I put the phone down and picked up the ring again. There was an inscription inside.
Too easy, I thought, too, too easy. I glanced round at the door again. This time I did move to lock it before holding the ring up to the light. The inscription was hard to read, written in that pretty but virtually indecipherable script that I think is called italic calligraphy. A period in the peat hadn't helped much.
The first letter was J, the second H or maybe N. Then there was a K followed by what could have been a C or a G. Then there were four numbers: a four, a five, a zero and a two. If they were the initials of the marrying couple and the wedding date and if- big if, this – the ring had come from my friend, then we'd done it. We'd identified her.
I turned round to look at the phone. Over here, now! it barked. I turned my back on it and found the phone book. There were twenty registration districts on Shetland. I dialled the number for the Lerwick office. It was answered immediately. I took a deep breath, heart pounding, feeling ridiculously, inexplicably guilty, and then told the woman who I was, stressing my position of seniority at the hospital. As usual, it worked; she became interested, eager to help.
'We've found a piece of jewellery,' I explained. 'I think you may be able to help trace its owner.'
'Of course, what can we do, Miss Hamilton?'
'I think it's a wedding ring. It has an inscription that looks like a wedding date and some initials. You keep records of weddings, don't you?'
'All weddings in Lerwick, yes. Did the wedding take place in the town?'
'I'm not sure; I think so. I don't have a name, though. Can your records be searched just with a date?'
'Well, you could look up all the weddings that took place on that particular day and see if your initials matched any of them.'
Was it really going to be that simple?
'Can I do that? Can a member of the public just come along and search the records?'
Absolutely. We normally charge £10 for an hour's search but I'm sure in your case we could…' She left the offer hanging.
'Do I need to make an appointment?
'No, just come along. Our hours are 10 a.m. till 1 p.m. and then 2 p.m. until 4 p.m.'
I glanced at the clock. The vet was due any second and I had nothing planned for the rest of the day that couldn't wait.
I knew I should hand the ring over to DS Tulloch and let her get on with it.
'Thank you,' I said. 'I'll be along this afternoon.'
Two hours later I arrived at the register office in Lerwick. The vet had been and gone. Charles was going to be fine: lame for a few days, but then good as new. The news had softened, a little, my fury with Gifford. He might have given my fragile professional confidence a kicking but at least he'd saved my horse.
Before leaving home I'd phoned DS Tulloch and left a brief message on her voicemail, telling her I'd found something that might be connected to the murder and that I'd drop it by the station on my way into town. I hadn't been specific. I'd put the ring in a sterile bag and enclosed it, with a brief note, inside a large brown envelope. When I'd arrived at the station, Dana was still out so I left it, marked for her attention, at the front desk. I felt like I'd just lit the blue touch-paper on a firework and needed to stand well back.
Marion, the woman I'd spoken to on the phone, led me to a computer screen. I checked my watch. Twelve-thirty. I had half an hour before the office closed for lunch. Taking a folded Post-it note out of my bag I double-checked the date I'd noted before handing the ring in: 4.5.02, 4 May 2002. I found the right year and scrolled down until I came to the May weddings. It was a popular month for tying the knot. There had been four Saturdays in that particular May and several weddings on each; also a few mid-week ceremonies. Twenty-two weddings in all. I scanned down the list until I found the fourth of the month and immediately spotted a definite possibility. Kyle Griffiths married Janet Hammond at St Margaret's Church. I scribbled down all the details before checking the rest of the list. Nothing else.
'Found anything?'
I jumped before I could help it, then took a deep breath and told myself that I was not going to look guilty, apologize or ramble on mindlessly. I turned round.
Dana Tulloch, as usual, was immaculately dressed, in black trousers, simple red top and an obviously expensive black, red and white plaid jacket. I found myself wondering how she managed to be so well dressed on a police sergeant's salary.
'You look nice,' I said, without thinking.
She gave me a surprised look and pulled up a chair beside me. I showed her my scribble. She nodded.