I saw a grey face through the grubby downstairs window. Eileen Anderson was even thinner and more gaunt, but I’d have known her anywhere. She still seemed haunted by a fear of the world beyond her kitchen walls. She must have seen me, though she didn’t respond. She just stared out at me. Maybe she hoped I would go away. But I didn’t. I approached the house and knocked at the door. It occurred to me then that there should have been dogs. Every croft has dogs to work the sheep. But there was no sound of barking.

It seemed an age before she opened the door.

‘Aye.’ A cross between a question and a greeting.

‘Mrs Anderson.’ I held out my hand.

‘Are you a reporter?’ The words sharp and accusing.

I shook my head. ‘An old friend of Billy’s.’ Which was true enough.

‘I had a reporter around in the summer,’ she said. ‘From the Shetland Times. Wanting to mark the ten-year anniversary of Billy’s death with an article about teenage depression. I told him our Billy was never depressed.’ She’d said I, not we. Did that mean she’d found the courage, finally, to kick Malcolm out?

‘Is Mr Anderson not around?’

She looked me up and down. It occurred to me that she’d worked out who I was. ‘He died,’ she said. ‘Five years ago. A neighbour farms the land now. I just keep the house and a few hens.’ That explained the absence of dogs then. She waited for me to tell her what I was doing there, what I wanted from her. But what could I say? I could hardly demand an explanation for the newspaper article – or ask for her forgiveness – standing on the doorstep. In the end I just muttered goodbye and turned away. I think Eileen was relieved.

As I walked back to the car, the sun felt almost warm on my bare neck. I wasn’t sure what to make of the conversation or what to do next. I needed a plan of action. I work better when I have a plan. All my novels are plotted intricately in advance.

I was so deep in thought that I didn’t notice the scrap of paper stuck under the windscreen until I was sitting in the car. It was obscuring my view, so I got out into the cold again and pulled it away. There was writing on it, in block capitals: GO HOME JACKIE TAIT. IT’S NOT SAFE FOR YOU HERE.

In Scalloway I stopped outside the shop. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. This wasn’t supposed to be happening – I was supposed to be in Shetland on my own terms, not at the mercy of a stalker. I wondered if John could be playing some kind of game, but soon I dismissed that idea. Why would he? It was in his interest to keep me there, writing my story. After a couple of deep breaths I felt a little calmer and went into the store. Nobody took any notice of me there. I was a stranger, but these days Shetlanders are used to visitors, even in winter. I bought lentils and vegetables and another bottle of wine.