'What the hell are they?' asked Gifford at last.
Symbols, three of them, had been carved into the victim's back: the first between her shoulder blades, the second across her waist and the third along her lower back. All three symbols were angular, made up of entirely straight lines; two of them were vertically symmetrical, the third was not. The first, the one between her shoulder blades, reminded me a little of the Christian fish symboclass="underline"
The second, across her waist, consisted of two triangles lying on their sides with their apexes touching; how a child might draw an angular bow on a kite string:
The third was just two straight lines, the longest running diagonally from just above the right hip bone to the cleft of her buttocks and the second crossing it diagonally:
Each one measured about six inches at its longest dimension.
'Very shallow wounds,' said Renney, the only one of us not trans- fixed by what we were looking at. 'Painful, but not life-threatening in themselves. Made with an extremely sharp knife. Again, a scalpel springs to mind.' He glanced at Gifford. So did I. Gifford was still staring at the woman's back.
'While she was alive?' asked Tulloch.
Renney nodded. 'Oh yes. They bled a little, then had time to heal partly. I'd say a day or two before she died.'
'Which would explain the need for restraint,' said Dunn.
Tulloch glanced down and then up at the ceiling, her hands clenched into fists.
'But what are they?' asked Gifford again.
'They're runes,' I said.
Everyone turned to me. Gifford screwed up his already deep-set eyes and twisted his head as if to say, Come again.
'Viking runes,' I elaborated. 'I have them in my cellar at home. Carved into some stone. My father-in-law identified them. He knows a lot about local history.'
'Do you know what they mean?' asked Tulloch.
'Haven't a clue,' I confessed. 'Just that they're some sort of ancient script brought over by the Norwegians. You see them quite a lot around the islands. Once you know what you're looking for.'
'Would your father-in-law know what they mean?' asked Tulloch.
I nodded. 'Probably. I'll give you his number.'
'Fascinating,' said Gifford, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the woman.
I peeled off my gloves and was the first to leave the room. Tulloch followed close on my tail.
'So, what happens next?' Kenn Gifford asked, as the four of us walked back down the corridor towards the hospital entrance.
'We start combing through the missing-persons lists,' replied Dunn. 'We get the nail varnish tested, find out what make it is, maybe even what batch, where it was sold. Same with the linen she was wrapped in.'
'With DNA and dental records, and what we know about her pregnancy, it shouldn't take long to find out who she is,' said Tulloch. 'Fortunately, we have a relatively small population up here to work with.'
'Of course, she might not be from the islands at all,' said Inspector Dunn. 'We might be just a convenient dumping ground for a body. We may never know who she was.'
My stomach twisted and I realized how totally unacceptable that possibility was. There would be no closure for me until I knew who she was and how the hell she'd got into my field.
'With respect, sir, I'm sure she was local,' said Tulloch, surprise clear on her face. 'Why would anyone travel out here to bury a body when there are miles of ocean between us and the nearest mainland? Why not just dump her at sea?'
It occurred to me that, had I murdered anyone, I'd have done that anyway. The Shetland Islands have an estimated coastline of around 1,450 kilometres, but a land mass of just 1,468 square kilometres: a very uncommon ratio. Nowhere on Shetland is more than about five miles from the coast and nothing could be simpler than accessing a boat. A weighted body flung overboard a mile or so out to sea would stand a much smaller chance of being discovered than one buried in a field.
At that moment, my pager and Gifford's went off simultaneously. Janet Kennedy's blood had arrived. The two officers thanked us and left, heading for the airport to meet the mainland team.
An hour later, all had gone well and I was back in my office, trying to summon up enough energy to go home. I was standing at the window, watching the day growing dimmer as banks of cloud rolled in from the sea. I could just about make out my reflection in the glass. Normally I change before going home but I was still dressed in surgical trousers and one of the tight vests I always wear under my coat in theatre. I had a sharp, almost stabbing muscle-pain between my shoulder blades and I reached back with both hands to massage it.
Two hands, warm and large, dropped on to my shoulders. Instead of nearly jumping out of my skin, I relaxed and allowed my hands to slide out from underneath them.
'Stretch your arms up, high as you can,' commanded a familiar voice. I did what I was told. Gifford pushed down on my shoulders, rotating backwards and down. It was almost painful. Actually, it was very painful. I felt the urge to protest, as much at the impropriety as at the physical discomfort. I said nothing.
'Now, out to the sides,' he said. I reached out, as instructed. Gifford wrapped his hands around my neck and pulled upwards. I wanted to object but found I couldn't speak. Then he twisted, just once, to the right and released me.
I span round. The pain was gone, my shoulders were tingling and I felt great; as though I'd slept for twelve hours.
'How'd you do that?' I was barefoot and he towered above me. I took a step back, came up sharp against the window ledge.
He grinned. 'I'm a doctor. Drink?'
I felt myself blush. Suddenly unsure of myself, I looked down at my watch: six forty-five p.m.
'There are things I need to talk to you about,' said Gifford, 'and I'm going to be snowed under for the next few days. Besides, you look as though you need one.'
'You got that right.' I found my coat and shoes and followed him out. As I locked my office I wondered how he'd managed to open the door and cross an uncarpeted room without my hearing him. Come to think of it, how come I hadn't noticed his reflection in the window? I must have been deep, deep in a daydream.
Twenty minutes later we'd found a window seat in the inn at Weisdale. The view of the voe was grey: grey sea, grey sky, grey hills. I turned my back and looked at the fire instead. At home, in London, the blossom would be out in the parks, tourists starting to crowd the streets, pubs dusting off their outdoor furniture. On Shetland, spring arrives late and sulking, like a teenager forced to attend church.
'I'd heard you didn't drink,' said Gifford, as he put a large glass of red wine down in front of me. He sat and ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping it up and back, away from his face. Allowed to fall, it just brushed his shoulders. It was fringeless and layered, a style you sometimes see on men who've never quite got over the rebellion of their youth. On a member of the Royal College it seemed ridiculously out of place and I wondered what he was trying to prove.
'I didn't,' I replied, picking up the glass. 'That is, I don't. Not much. Not usually.' Truth was, I used to drink as much as anyone, more than many, until Duncan and I started trying for a family. Then I'd taken the pledge, and tried to persuade Duncan to do the same. But my resolution had been increasingly weakened of late. It's just so easy to tell yourself that one small glass won't hurt and then, before you know it, one glass becomes half a bottle and another developing follicle is seriously compromised. Sometimes I wish I didn't know quite so much about how the body works.
'I think you have a pretty good excuse,' said Gifford. 'Have you read Walter Scott's Ivanhoe?'
I shook my head. The classics had never really been my thing. I'd struggled with, and eventually despaired of, Bleak House whilst studying for O-level English. After that, I'd concentrated on the sciences.