‘Tell me about the confession,’ I said. ‘The letter I was supposed to have written. The letter pushed through the Andersons’ door.’

He said nothing.

‘It was an essay,’ I said. ‘The first bit of creative writing for you, as part of my standard grade exams. I remember the comment you gave me: Maybe you’ve let your imagination run away with you here, Jackie. This is a bit Gothic for my taste. It would be in my file at school.’

Still he remained silent.

‘Why did you invite me back here?’ I said. ‘Why drag up the past?’

‘I needed to know,’ he said. ‘Your writing grew darker and darker. Had you guessed what happened that night? One day would you come out with it, as a piece of fiction? It’s been driving me crazy. The thought of seeing the story in the bestseller list.’

‘Not guilt then,’ I kept my voice even, but I knew in that moment that I’d kill him. ‘It wasn’t guilt that kept you awake – just the fear of being caught.’

He walked up to me and put his hands on my shoulders. ‘We’ll leave it, shall we? Let’s put it behind us and get on with our lives.’

I felt the handle of the knife in the pocket of my jacket and grasped it. ‘Why the notes?’ I asked. ‘Why try to scare me away? It was you who’d brought me here.’

‘That was nothing to do with me.’ He turned suddenly and started to leave the building, an adult bored with the tedious questions of a child. I pulled the knife from my pocket and stuck the point into his back, under the ribs, where I could do most damage. He was only wearing a fleece, and he’d have felt the point of the knife on his skin. It was very sharp. I tapped his shoulder with my other hand.

‘Walk,’ I said. There was a sudden exhilaration, as the waves below sounded very loud in my ears. It came to me that I might jump after him. I imagined how it might feel, floating past the gannets, held in the bright sunlight.

‘The notes were my idea.’ This was a different voice, and it came from right behind me. A Shetlander with an accent I didn’t quite recognize. The man went on, ‘Not very clever, as it turned out. But I couldn’t warn you off professionally. I’m still on compassionate leave.’ I felt arms around me, the knife prised out of my hand. ‘I remember the Billy Anderson case. I never quite accepted it was suicide, though I couldn’t persuade the Fiscal. She’ll believe me now, though. She’s in her office and she heard that conversation on her phone.’ I turned and saw the tall man who’d greeted me on my first night in Scalloway, walking through the blizzard. He was waving a mobile phone in his free hand. He was still wearing the long coat. He was dark and untidy and had a sad grin. ‘I thought Sinclair might try to harm you. Never thought it would work the other way round.’