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 Gewons?' 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 Gewons's left hand. It was bare, but I thought I knew why.
Mrs Gewons 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 Gewons 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 Gewons 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 key- pad 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 in- somnia 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.