I pushed in past him. The sofa and armchair were upholstered in a sinuous olive brown and had wide, polished wooden arms. There was a serving hatch in the wall and a ceiling light with a fan on, as if he might be living in a tropical country. A boiled vegetable smell that almost made me gag hung in the air.

‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ he said, ambling in behind me. ‘It’s not much, but it does—’

‘I don’t care,’ I said and crossed my arms. He raised his eyebrows in a show of gallant surprise, and I watched them see-saw down again. ‘How do you know Jim?’

He blinked, once, and looked out the window. ‘Jim?’ His voice was trying ignorance on for size.

‘You were at his jeep. In the car park by the woods.’

Something passed over his face – puzzlement, suspicion, guilt. Cut to the chase. I lifted the photo of Molly off the wall, leaving a rectangle of anaemic wallpaper underneath, and heard a measured intake of breath behind me.

She was a bit younger than the press photos – maybe sixteen – and you could just see a strip of loch behind her head. Strands of her hair were plaited into two thin braids in the folds of blonde on one side. Strappy black vest top. A rash of freckles on her nose. Holding the picture – something physical, as opposed to those I’d seen on my laptop screen – felt as palpable as if I were holding her, hands wedged under her shoulders, while she looked back up at me, trying to work me out.

‘Was she your daughter?’

It was like I’d just headbutted him in the stomach. Johnny sat down all at once, his large hands gripping the arms of the chair, and took a couple of deep, chugging breaths. ‘My niece.’ A little of the courtliness in his voice had eroded.

‘Did you kill her?’

‘No, I did not.’ Extra emphasis on the last word, and spoken as if answering a prosecution lawyer. Far less outrage than there should have been.

‘I know you know something,’ I said.

He frowned at the floor, examined the tip of his shoe.

I pressed on. ‘Why were you scared of me? At the bonfire?’

He tried to twinkle his eyes at me. ‘Not scared. Just remembering.’

Remembering what? ‘Tell me. Please.’

A pause as vast as the loch. ‘No, lassie,’ he said. ‘It’s old water now.’

‘It’s not. It’s not old. Tell me.’

He sighed, a sound that swirled in his throat. ‘It’s twenty years gone. I’ve not told – it feels peculiar to …’ He seemed to be gathering himself, as if he were getting dressed to go out, shrugging a heavy greatcoat on. ‘I’ve never quite believed it myself. The years, they start playing tricks on you, dancing in front of your eyes when you’re trying to walk straight. Or as straight as I can.’ He looked at me, his eyes a little watery. I didn’t believe him. ‘Have some tea with me.’