“A child was involved.” George was almost shrieking. That similarity must be obvious even to the police on Baltasay, who had to deal with nothing more complicated than drunken brawls on a Friday night. “And no one from Kinness knew that she had been in court. I explained to you about Mary Stennet’s secret. Don’t you see that must make Elspeth Dance a suspect?”

“I know you’re very involved with the case, sir,” Johnson said, “but I’ve been discussing it with the super-intendent and we still don’t think these are grounds to consider that the young girl’s death was murder. He thinks it more likely that the old man was involved in a bit of an argument, someone lost their temper. It happens quite often in the outlying islands. Nothing more complicated than that.”

I was right, George thought, they’re not prepared to consider anything other than a drunken brawl. It’s all that they’re used to.

He tried to control his temper.

“You do accept, then,” he said quietly, “that Robert was murdered?”

“No doubt about it,” said the policeman, glad to return to a point on which they would agree. “The gun was fired only a few yards from the victim. There’s no way that it could have been an accident. I doubt if we’ll ever find out who did it. They’re a close lot on the outer islands. I expect they all know who it was, but no one’s prepared to talk.”

“I won’t take up any more of your time, Inspector,” George said.

He felt the weight of responsibility. It was as if the police had given up, and had handed over the task of finding the murderer to him. He stood up and left the room.

Sylvia Drysdale had arrived at Lutwick before him. She must have hired a taxi, too. It would have been sensible, he supposed, to share one, but he had wanted to be alone. She stood, looking out to sea, watching for the first glimpse of the Ruth Isabella with a kind of fraught impatience. She looked as if she had not slept, and smoked cigarette after cigarette. Here in the south of Baltasay the visibility was even worse than in the town and a grey wall of cloud meant that they would not see the boat until it was almost at the jetty.

George walked up to Sylvia. More than ever now he wanted to finish the thing quickly. While he was standing at the bar, the night before, it had occurred to him that he should just fly south, leave Baltasay and Kinness, and never return. Even while he had been drunk, however, that had seemed impossible and his conversation with Johnson had made it essential that he complete the matter before he left.

“You must be glad to be going home,” he said. She did not seem glad. She seemed frightened, desperately unhappy.

“Yes.”