Sacrifice

'… at the station saw the coastguard report and recognized the name. Look, can I do anything? Do you want me to come up?'

I was touched. And for a second, I would have given anything to have her company, but knew it would have been ridiculously selfish. Dana had far too much to do to come and babysit me. I started walking again.

'Thanks, but the outlaws are looking after me. Anything new?'

'Sort of. I was planning to call you anyway. Can you talk right now?'

I looked round, saw a rock, plonked myself down on it. 'Sure, go ahead. Although I'm not sure how long the signal will last.'

'I've been talking to Melissa Gair's GP again. I wanted to check something he told me.'

'Go on.'

'He said that, whilst the lump in Melissa's breast was definitely worthy of checking out, it hadn't unduly worried him at the time. At the worst, he'd thought it would be a malignant tumour in the very early stages. He'd been amazed, he said, to hear about her death so soon afterwards. He didn't say it was impossible, but I couldn't help feeling that's what he was driving at.'

The wind was getting up; I pulled my jacket up higher around my neck. 'And you want to know what I think?'

'Yes,' she said, none too patiently. 'What do you think?'

'Well, it would certainly be very unusual,' I replied. 'But some- times it happens that way. Maybe Melissa didn't spot the lump straight away, so it could have been growing for quite some time before she even went to the GP. Maybe he didn't realize quite how extensive it was.'

'Not impossible, then?'

I was getting cold so I moved on again. 'No, not impossible.'

She made me repeat myself. I lost her for a few seconds and then she was back again.

'Did you find anything on Stephen Gair?' I asked.

'I went to see him at home yesterday. Nice place. Met his new wife and a child they say is hers from a previous relationship.'

'Right,' I encouraged, not really sure where she was going.

'It's a little boy. Not quite two years old. Name's Connor Gair. Stephen's officially adopted him.'

'Nice. And…'

'Looks a lot like his new stepdad. And they seem very close.' I couldn't see how that was remotely relevant. I had no interest in Stephen Gair's family life. I was a bit preoccupied thinking about my own – or lack of it.

'He has carrot-coloured hair, gorgeous fair skin and very fine features. His mother, on the other hand, is quite dark.'

I thought for a moment. Light dawned. 'Blimey!' I said.

'Quite.'

She started crackling again so I told her, without being sure she could hear me, that I would phone her that evening. I carried on into Uyeasound, a scattering of buildings around a small, natural harbour.

I found the coffee shop easily enough. A couple of hikers sat at one of the tables; a man in a business suit at another. That left three tables free. I chose one and sat down. An elderly woman poked her head out of a door at the back of the room, glanced round, didn't appear to notice me and disappeared again. I pulled a biro out of my coat pocket and picked up one of the paper napkins on the table. I started to doodle. And think.

Connor Gair; a fair-skinned, two-year-old boy. Given my own preoccupation with babies, it's hardly surprising that since finding out that the murdered woman had given birth, I'd been wondering what had happened to her baby. Had the baby died too, I'd asked myself many times, or was it alive somewhere, oblivious to what had happened to its mother? Had Dana now found that baby?

Well, if Stephen Gair was bringing up his own son by Melissa but passing him off as the child of his new wife, he had to have been involved in Melissa's death. There was no getting round that one.

'Ye writin to da Trowie folk?'

I jumped. The waitress had returned and was looking down at the napkin. I'd drawn several of the runes I remembered from the standing stone.

'Oh,' I said, 'they're runes. From the standing stone up at Lunda Wick.'

She nodded. 'Aye, da Trowie marks.'

The Shetland dialect can be pretty strong and the locals aren't above exaggerating it a bit to perplex their visitors.

'Sorry, but what's Trowie?'

She grinned at me, showing bad teeth. Her once-fair skin had been burned red by the wind and her hair was like dead straw. She looked about sixty; she could have been anything from forty-five upwards. 'Da Trows,' she said. 'Da grey folk.'

It was a new one on me. 'I thought they were runes. Viking runes.'

She nodded and seemed to lose interest. 'Aye. Dey say dey came fra the Norse lands. What'll I get ye?'

I ordered a sandwich and coffee and she disappeared back into her kitchen. Trow, Trowie? I wrote it down, guessing at the spelling. I'd never heard the word before but it might well be significant. What I'd assumed were Viking runes, she'd called Trowie marks. Who were the Trows? And why would they carve their marks on Melissa's body?

I waited for her to come back but the cafe was filling up. When she brought my order, she plonked it down and turned to another table. I could come back later, when the cafe was quieter, or I could find a library. Now, that was a thought. I had access to the best library on Unst, one that specialized in island folklore and legend. Always assuming I could successfully navigate the librarian. I ate quickly, got up and paid my bill.

I was lucky; Richard was still out and Elspeth only too happy to be left alone all afternoon. By five o'clock, I knew more about the history of Shetland than I'd ever wanted to. I'd learned that Viking warriors had invaded in the eighth century, bringing with them the old pagan religions of Scandinavia. Christianity had arrived two hundred years later, but by that time the Norse pagan beliefs were deep rooted and had clung hard. As had the Nordic culture.

Though geographically closer to the coast of Scotland, the Shetland Isles had been part of a Norse earldom until the late fifteenth century. Even after the islands passed under Scottish rule, the sea continued to insulate them, preserving a whole store of tradition. The dialect was still heavily interspersed with old Norse words, many of which had been adapted and localized. The word Trow being a case in point.

Trow, I discovered, was an island corruption of the Scandinavian word troll. According to legend, when the Vikings had arrived for a spot of rape and pillage, they hadn't come alone – they'd brought the Trows. Most of the early references I found described the Trows as quite endearing creatures, albeit stomach-churningly ugly: cheerful, happy people, who lived in splendid caverns in the ground, were fond of good food, drink and music, but hated churches and anything connected to religion. Humans took care not to offend them on account of their supernatural abilities.

They had powers to charm and hypnotize, and liked to lure away humans, particularly children and pretty young women. They also had the gift of making themselves invisible, especially at night-time and at twilight. Strong sunlight, depending on which version of the stories you read, was either uncomfortable or fatal.

I found stories of Trows stealing into homes at night-time, to sit around the fireside and help themselves to household produce, tools or – their favourite – items fashioned from silver; and of islanders leaving gifts of fresh water and bread out for their Trowie visitors, like children leaving mince pies out for Santa Claus. I learned that Trows were powerless when confronted with iron.

It was all quite harmless, entertaining stuff. Until I got to the Unst versions of the stories. Then things took a decidedly darker turn.

Gletna Kirk, for example, not far from Uyeasound, had never been completed, thanks to the Trows. Any building work done on one day would be found strewn down the next. One night, irritated by the lack of progress, the officiating priest had stayed at the site to watch. He'd been found dead the next morning. His murderer was never found, the building work was abandoned and Trows had copped the blame.

I read that the numerous tiny hillocks around the islands were believed to be Trow graves, the creatures, it seemed, being particular about how they were buried. Trows believed that if their bodies didn't lie in 'sweet, dark earth', their souls would wander and turn malicious. Many Trows were buried together, preferring company, even in death. Even today, it was claimed, an islander, discovering disturbed ground on his land, wouldn't investigate, in case he uncovered a Trowie grave and set loose an evil spirit.