I thought about claiming all the credit, being Superhero Dog Finder of the Year. ‘A guy brought him to the hotel.’

Her look was more gentle. Forgiven, just a little.

It had been weird in the bar. Saloon doors in an old Western squeaking on their hinges. Big tangles of tumbleweed scratching past. Maybe everyone knew about him. Maybe they called him Birdkiller behind his back. The local nutjob.

A message from Fraser. Glad yr dogs back. Come 2 mine 2moro? X

The dark, scuzzy patches under his eyes had been like a crap go on those old Etcha-Sketches. He’d been taller than I’d thought.

Another message. My house. Not quarry mine;)

4

I stared at the screen, my entire body seized up. Everything except my heart.

Police are appealing for witnesses.

With the wifi chugging away as if somewhere, deep below the house, slaves in chains were turning some colossal wheel to make it work, I’d lain on my bed and googled the words I hadn’t typed since arriving in Scotland. Just to see. If nothing had been reported then he was fine. He’d gone home to Barcelona and got on with living the rest of his life. Not dead.

And now I was wishing I hadn’t. In a coma. Traumatic brain seizure. His wallet had been stolen. His wallet. No ID. Police appealing for witnesses. Dead, dead, dead.

I carefully brought the laptop screen down and went to the front door.

Lottie poked her head into the hallway. ‘I’m going to buy some cake ingredients this afternoon. It’s been ages since you’ve made any of your treats.’

I put my boots on.

‘Where are you off to?’

‘Out.’

‘Want some company? I’ve hardly seen you.’ As if I’d been off rock-climbing up mountain ranges rather than lying on the sofa eating waffles with maple syrup and watching sappy cookery shows on telly. She’d obviously forgotten the Tyger thing enough. ‘I want a Polly Day. Soon.’

I shut the door behind me.

It was misty again. Monochrome. The trees were smoke trails rising up from the ground. I headed west, wandering in the middle of the road, waiting until cars were right on top of me before idling over to the verge. One guy in a pickup truck with a pyramid of thin logs in the back yelled something unintelligible at me, but the rest just slowed, waiting for me to shift. I could probably have amassed a train of cars, my own funeral procession. Or his.

Dead. Almost dead.

The road curved inward and the trees on my left fell away, revealing a long bay full of boulders I’d passed in Adam’s car before. By the loch, the rocks were studded with dried, peach-coloured barnacles, sharp enough to pinch the underside of my thighs. I let them dig in and took deep, furious drags on my joint, feeling the weed bloom in my lungs. Out here there was a brightness to the mist, like a torch behind a sheet.