Dougie didn’t know what to ask. He was just dreading his turn as victim. ‘Have you ever done anything you’re ashamed of?’ Where had that question come from?

Ben turned to face him. ‘Once,’ he said. Then: ‘I betrayed some friends.’

‘When was that?’ It was John Fowler. Dougie thought you could tell he’d been a journalist. You could imagine him sniffing out stories.

‘I’ve answered the question, haven’t I? No need to go into details.’ In the candlelight it looked as if Ben’s hair was on fire. ‘What about you, Hugh? What do you want to know?’

‘Did you love her?’

‘Who?’

‘Angela, of course. We’re all thinking about her.’

No hesitation. ‘Yes.’

Oh, Dougie thought. She’d have enjoyed that. Nothing Angela liked better than unquestioning devotion. And nothing she despised more.

John Fowler reached out and twisted the bottle, a deft movement that Dougie in this heightened mood thought looked like someone wringing the neck of a chicken. He watched the spinning glass, saw it stop. It was halfway between him and Hugh but he wanted this over. He couldn’t stand the waiting. ‘My turn then,’ he said. He felt he couldn’t breathe. The questions would be about sex. Or about Angela, which came to the same thing.

Hugh stared at him. ‘Did you kill Angela Moore?’

Dougie relaxed. ‘No.’ An easy question. And Hugh was the mischief-maker. If any of them was going to turn him into a figure of fun, it would be Hugh.

He turned to face the others. Now the worst was over he was almost enjoying being the centre of attention. John Fowler was watching him. It was out of character for the man to be here, playing a stupid adolescent game. Usually Fowler went to bed early with his wife. Straight after the cocoa and the biscuits and the calling of the log. Why was he here? Did he think they’d like him, accept him and believe his records again, just because he stopped up drinking with them? But Fowler didn’t speak and it was Ben who asked the next question.

‘Do you know who killed Angela?’

Dougie paused for a moment, but suspicion wasn’t knowledge. ‘No.’ He looked at John again, waiting for the last question.

‘Have you ever strung a bird?’ Fowler asked. ‘Have you claimed a record you weren’t sure about?’

It was the last thing Dougie had been expecting. Fowler was the stringer, not him.

‘Well?’ Fowler said gently. Hugh looked on, smiling.

Dougie was tempted to lie, but he could feel himself blushing.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Will you tell us about it?’ Fowler again. Like some priest, encouraging confession.

‘No.’ Dougie reached out and spun the bottle. It jerked and bounced on the table. When it stopped it was pointed directly at Hugh.

Dougie found that stupid, demeaning questions were running through his head. The sort of questions the bullies at school might have asked. ‘Have you ever pissed yourself? Fancied a bloke?’ But in the end, the worst question he could think of was the one he’d just been asked.