There had never before been a murder on the island. There had never been any serious crime at all. In that tiny community, everybody knew everybody else, and everyone had liked the Bairds. John, it was agreed by all, had been a decent family man who’d gone out of his way to help his neighbours, and had always been considerate and polite. Nobody, at first, could believe he was responsible, and rumours circulated about an outsider breaking in and staging the killings. But the police were quick to stamp this out. The evidence against John was overwhelming, even without Tommy’s confirmation, and the police didn’t want panic spreading about a fictional killer still at large. They were clear with the public: nobody else was being sought in connection with the deaths. Besides, the islanders themselves had to concede that there was no way a stranger could have made their way across Litta without being seen, and widely discussed, within moments of their arrival.

But something must have happened, people said. Something must have made John snap. Nobody could say what, beyond the fact that, as it came out later, he had lost his job a few months before and was in some debt. Plenty of men lost their jobs and didn’t go on to murder their wife and children. Perhaps Katrina had been having an affair, some people suggested, but how could this possibly have been the case? Nothing stayed hidden on the island. Still, he must have been driven to it somehow or other; ordinary men don’t suddenly go off the deep end like that. Not without provocation.

Some things you could never get your head round, however many years passed. Perhaps it was true, the islanders conceded at last, hardly sure if they meant it or not, that you could never really know anyone else, not even your own neighbours, not even your own family.

PART 1

1

When Gavin McKenzie came home from the pub, wiping his boots on the mat with that slow deliberation that meant he was half-cut, he said to his wife, “Tommy Baird’s back on the island.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t recognize the name; no one would forget a thing like that. But the mention of it was so unexpected that for a few seconds Fiona’s mind was blank. Then she saw him again, his serious little face as he stood in the shop with his mother, those bright cagoules he and his brother wore. Fiona was sixty-three, but her memory was as sharp as ever.

“Wee Tommy Baird?” she said. “Surely not.”

“He’s not so wee now,” Gavin said, taking off his wet coat and disappearing for a moment as he went to hang it up. “Must be thirty or more,” his voice came from the hallway.