Rhona Laing watched Sandy Wilson and the new detective inspector walk up the bank from the marina towards the house. She was standing in exactly the same position as when she’d first seen the yoal floating in the water.

I should have ignored it. The thought had been sniping away at her since she’d seen Markham’s body. I should have let the tide carry it out to sea. Done nothing. Said nothing.

She composed herself. It was ridiculous to think in this way. She distracted herself by looking at the young woman at Sandy’s side. She was tall and gangling, with long, untamed hair. No make-up. Trousers so long that they’d frayed at the hem, where her shoes had caught them at the back. A baggy cotton jumper in an indeterminate fawn colour, which could have been bought in a charity shop. Over it all a blue Berghaus jacket, unzipped and flapping loose. Rhona felt insulted by the lack of care that the woman had taken over her appearance. Hadn’t she realized that, if women wanted to be successful in their chosen career, they should make some effort? She decided that Inspector Reeves had probably gained her promotion because the Highlands and Islands Police Service felt the need to fill some unwritten quota. The thought pleased her. Willow Reeves would be no competition. She and Sandy passed out of sight briefly to reach the front of the house. Rhona took a deep breath and waited for the doorbell to ring.

Inside the house, with its clean lines and lack of clutter, the detective looked even untidier and somehow clumsy. Rhona wanted to tell her not to move, in case she broke something. It was like having an unruly child in the place. Reeves wandered into the living room and stood there, seeming to take up more space than Rhona would have considered possible.

‘Coffee?’ After all, one did have to be polite.

‘Oh yes, please.’ The detective turned and smiled, and again Rhona thought she looked very young, hardly an adult at all.

In the kitchen, spooning grounds into the filter machine, Rhona wished she could see what they were doing in her living room. She wouldn’t put it past that girl to snoop. To open drawers, lift the lid of her desk. There was nothing to see, of course. Nothing untoward. But still the notion made Rhona uncomfortable. This was her work coming far too close to home.

She carried in the tray and they sat on the chairs that were Rhona’s pride and joy. They’d been imported from Sweden and she loved the pale curved wood and soft leather. The young woman was speaking.