During my half-hour lunch break I grabbed a sandwich from the hospital canteen. Not feeling up to small talk, I took it back to my office and, with nothing to immediately occupy me, started getting flashbacks of the night before. My sandwich – rare roast beef – no longer seemed a particularly wise choice. Searching for something to take my mind off blood-covered organs, I found myself thinking of Kirsten Hawick, who'd been killed riding a horse not far away. I've been riding since I was seven and consider myself, modesty aside, pretty good. But hearing about Kirsten's accident had bothered me. The best of riders can be caught unawares and horses are notoriously unpredictable, especially on the roads. I wanted to know more. Had she been at fault? What had happened to the driver of the lorry? I switched on my computer and accessed the Internet.
The Shetland Times is not the only newspaper on the islands, but it's the one claiming the highest circulation. I found its website easily enough. I put 'Kirsten Hawick' and 'Riding Accidents' into the search facility and pressed Go. A few seconds later I was reading the account, from August 2004, of how a supermarket delivery lorry took a blind corner on the B9074 just a little too fast and of how the driver had been unable to stop when he found himself almost on top of the woman on the large grey horse. Kirsten had been pronounced dead at the hospital and there was a quote – bland and sympathetic – from the senior registrar. The police were considering a charge of causing death by dangerous driving.
There would be follow-up stories in later issues of the paper but I wasn't interested. I was staring at the photograph of Kirsten that accompanied the story. The caption described it as having been taken by her husband on a recent walking holiday. There were mountains in the background and an inland loch just behind her. She wore walking boots and waterproofs and looked very happy. Her hair was cut into a chin-length bob and was as straight as my own. The night before, looking at the photograph at the Hawicks' home, Dana and I had been deceived by a glamorous wedding hair- do and had compared it to the woman on the autopsy table with her long, corkscrew curls. When Kirsten Hawick died, her hair was short and straight. And that finally convinced me. I sighed, checked my messages – nothing from Dana – and logged off before heading down to theatre.
By six o'clock I was so tired I could have starred in Night of the Living Dead, but the thought of going home didn't hold enormous appeal. I found I was really missing Duncan. We had to try and use this coming weekend as a chance to reconnect, somehow. Perhaps we could catch the ferry up to Unst and stay with his parents for a couple of nights. Our Laser 2 was up there for the summer and we could do some sailing; maybe even a race or two if the local club was active this weekend.
Dana hadn't phoned and I was hugely relieved. I hadn't worked out what I was going to say to her, but I'd decided I wasn't going to do what she'd asked. I no longer believed the woman buried in my field was Kirsten Hawick. Any more digging on my part could get me into serious trouble and – more importantly – I'd promised Duncan. Somehow, I was going to have to get the dental X-rays back to her without anyone knowing she'd given them to me. I picked up a pile of midwives' timesheets that needed checking and signing, read through the first and scribbled my signature at the bottom.
If you're not getting close, why is someone trying to scare you?
I stopped, pen in mid-air. Then looked down. My briefcase was by my desk. I reached into it and pulled out the file.
I'd promised Duncan.
I shoved the file back down and closed the case. Last night had been a joke, a sick prank, nothing more. Gifford was right: news spreads like forest-fire in small communities. In the restaurant at lunchtime someone behind me had muttered, 'Have a heart, Nigel.' There'd been sniggers and a scuffle, the sound of someone being elbowed sharply in the ribs. I'd given no sign that I'd heard, but knew that my adventures were common knowledge and that more than one person on the islands was getting some fun out of them. I bent down to the timesheets again.
Someone stood in your bedroom. Watched you while you were asleep. Some kind of joke!
I scribbled my name on a third and a fourth timesheet. I can't say for certain that I read them.
They entered your house without breaking any windows, forcing any doors. Sound like an ordinary prankster to you?
I put down my pen and looked at my case again.
Can't hurt, can it, to rule Kirsten out once and for all?
I pulled the black and white films from the cardboard file and placed them on top of white paper on my desk. There was a noise outside, someone walking past in the corridor. I got up, meaning to lock the door, and found my office keys weren't in my handbag. Leaving keys at home is hardly a first for me so, thinking nothing of it, I took a spare set from the desk drawer and used them. Sitting back down again, I looked at the X-ray. It was what is known as a panoramic radiograph, showing every tooth present in the mouth.
Permanent dentition consists normally of thirty-two teeth and one of the first rules in studying dental radiographs is to count. There were thirty-one: fifteen uppers, sixteen lowers, only two molars in the upper right quadrant rather than the more usual three. There was what looked like a crown in the upper left quadrant; also a malformed root above one of the pre-molars in the upper right quadrant. Unlike all the other roots, this one had a distinctive distal curvature. Most of the teeth were regular, but there seemed to be a significant space in the bottom right-hand side, between the first and second pre-molar. Not big enough to suggest a missing tooth, just a gap that would be barely noticeable when she smiled. Several of the back teeth had been filled. I was no dentist, but I was pretty certain I'd be able to make an intelligent comparison of these films with any others that might be relevant.
The phone rang. It was the secretary whom several of the doctors share, with a call waiting from Dana Tulloch. I asked her to tell Dana I was still in theatre and would get back to her later.
Glancing once more at my door even though I knew it was locked, I found the hospital's intranet site and tried to access the dental department. And found myself tripped at the first hurdle. As a consultant I have access to pretty much the entire site, but the dental unit politely requested a password. I thought about ringing the hospital's IT department but I was willing to bet all requests for new information had to be cleared by Gifford first. I got up and crossed to the window. His BMW was still in the car park. I took a puce-coloured folder from my cupboard and tucked the X-ray inside it. Then I left the room.
The recently opened NHS dental unit is in a separate building within the hospital complex, just a short walk away. I was still wearing my scrubs and I made sure my consultant's badge was visible just above my right-hand jacket pocket. What I wanted was a not- terribly-bright-or-interested dental nurse.
I pushed through the double doors and forced my best smile on to my face. The nurse/receptionist looked up. The name on her badge said Shirley. She didn't smile back or look at all pleased to have a visitor.
'Hi! We haven't met. I'm Tora Hamilton.' I held up my badge and waited until I'd felt sure she'd read it. 'Obstetrics,' I added, somewhat unnecessarily. Then I looked at her with what I hoped came across as polite interest. Are you new too?'
She nodded. 'Just three months,' she responded in a Shetland accent. So far, so good.
I leaned forward, trying for a friendly, confidential manner. 'The thing is, I've got a bit of an embarrassing problem.'
Suddenly, she looked interested.