“He thought she should always do what he wanted,” Tommy said.

“He never knew what it was he wanted.”

They were both silent. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and Malcolm looked for a way to draw it back to safer territory while knowing he had no right to do that.

He wondered how much Tommy knew, or had guessed, about the events leading up to the murders. But none of them had very much to go on. Katrina had been secretive in life, and she remained secretive in death. They’d received a letter from the procurator fiscal summarizing his findings after it was all over. Malcolm had wanted as much information as possible, though Heather had said this was foolish—morbid even—and he would only upset himself further. Heather had never even looked at the letter herself. The fiscal had warned Malcolm that it contained “distressing details” (You don’t say, Malcolm had wanted to reply), but in the end it hadn’t told him much he didn’t know already, despite running to five close-typed pages. It contained only the facts of the matter: a summary of the police investigation, with who died, and how, and where, and in what order. There was also a brief discussion of John’s debts.

Malcolm had gone to see the fiscal in person over in Oban, and the man had taken him through the findings, answering all his questions. He had been very kind. Malcolm went home on the ferry, still clutching his letter, still having learned nothing new. But why would the police or the fiscal have been able to unearth the truth about his brother when Malcolm himself could not? He had put the letter away in the bottom drawer of his desk and never looked at it again. “Why keep it at all?” Heather had said, and Malcolm hadn’t had an answer for her except that he felt he had to.

There was one thing he came back to from time to time. It was a conversation he’d had with Katrina’s sister Jill after the funeral for Katrina, Nicky and Beth. They’d all gathered in Malcolm and Heather’s cottage for the wake, though the place had been much too small really; people had spilled out into the garden, but thankfully the rain held off. Malcolm found himself standing in the narrow hallway with Jill, who looked as exhausted by the day’s events as he was. She was rather difficult to talk to, a reserved woman, not unlike Katrina in that respect, but without the warmth that softened Katrina’s shyness. After some awkward small talk about the turnout, Jill had said abruptly, “You know, she rang me, a few weeks ago. Hadn’t heard from her for two years by then.”