‘I’d never have known you,’ he said, ‘if I’d met you in the street.’ The street is what we call Commercial Street in Lerwick. The main shopping centre. The place to catch up with news.

‘Aye, well. It’s astonishing what a good hairdresser can do.’

In those days I’d had a mousy, tangled thatch. I’d thought the wild curls made me look like a Pre-Raphaelite heroine. Now I was blonde and sophisticated. The short cut fell back into place even after a night of disturbed sleep.

‘Come in,’ I said.

There was nobody about, but I was taking no chances. Besides, it was still cold. There’d been another scattering of snow in the night and a frost on top of that. Everything glistening, and the air sharp and clear.

I put on the kettle. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ I said. He made me feel as if I was still a pupil, that he’d wandered into our home-room to see unwashed cups and rubbish everywhere. He’d have had me on bruck duty.

‘It’s your home.’ He smiled. He’d always had a startling smile. ‘For the next month, at least.’

‘Who knows I’m here?’ It came out sharper than I’d expected, but I couldn’t take the words back.

‘Nobody. Complete anonymity. That was the deal. A place to stay and write in peace. And in return a short story from the famous Jacobina Tait.’ He smiled again. It’s a Shetland tradition to give girls a feminized version of a male relative’s name. In most families the practice died out ages ago, but mine was old-fashioned. Jacob was my maternal grandfather. I’ve always been called Jackie, though, and that’s the name I write under. ‘I’m the only person who knows you’re here,’ he said. ‘Honest.’

‘So you wrote this?’ I switched on the computer and showed him the email. ‘You’re Simeon?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’ We looked at each other in silence. Finally he continued speaking. ‘I’ll check in the office, see if someone might have got word that way. I’m sorry, Jackie. Really. I’ll understand if you want to leave.’

I considered and for a moment there was a flutter of relief, the possibility of escape. Perhaps I could drive back to the airport and by teatime I’d be back in the city. Anonymous and safe. But then I’d still have to live with the uncertainty, the scared sleepless nights. I shook my head.

‘Come and stay with us then,’ he said. ‘With Helen and me. So I know you’ll be safe.’

But that was unthinkable. Besides other considerations, Helen and John had three children, two dogs and a Shetland pony. There was no way I could work in that sort of chaos. John left soon after. He had a meeting to attend about the grand new arts centre on the harbour. He was surprisingly ambitious in his new role. I made coffee, and a quarter of an hour later I set out in the car.

My parents left the islands after all the publicity, but they weren’t suited to life in the south and now both are dead. Different illnesses, but both with the same cause: depression and irrational guilt. They were eaten away by that, just as cancer eats away at a healthy body, though how could they blame themselves for Billy’s death when they weren’t even there? The house where we lived was sold and I hadn’t seen it since I’d left. In my head it was always bathed in sunlight, and even today, in early December, the light was clear, reflected on the snow and the ice. It lies at the head of a voe and the water runs right up to the meadow.