The pub isn’t as busy as I’m expecting, which is a relief. Euan nods at us from behind a long table set up opposite the bar. It was his summons that forced us out of isolation, and judging by the low and unsettled grumbles, we’re not the only ones. Beside him sits a policewoman in black trousers and a bulky black jacket with police scotland printed in white below the lapel, while two other men in grey suits loiter against the wall behind them. One of them is Detective Constable ‘Call me Lockie’ Scott – who came to the blackhouse the morning after the fire.

There’s no one from Urbost or anywhere else here, I notice. Nor any of the relatives who helped out with the peat harvest. Will said Heather and David left for Stornoway Airport as soon as the police gave the okay on Sunday. There are no archaeologists either. I wonder if they’ve been asked to stay away. Because we’re the only ones who might know something, I consider, as I look around the grumbling room. Before realising that the we doesn’t actually apply to me. The disappointment instead of relief that I feel at this is a measure of just how much this place has come to feel like home.

Will waves at Cora, who’s sitting next to Euan and the long table, her hands clasped tight in her lap. We head towards the MacKenzies, sitting at their usual table. I don’t see Kelly; perhaps she’s upstairs with Fraser. Bruce nods as we sit down; Gillian offers us a brief smile. The MacDonalds aren’t here. That seems ominous in and of itself. As if reading my thoughts, Donnie leans over, a deep frown line between his eyes. ‘Alec’s on his way back from the rigs.’

This is unspoken. The conviction that the dead child must be Lorne. It’s an obvious assumption. He’s the only child to have ever gone missing. I think of that little memorial above Long Stride.

I look across the room, where Charlie is sitting with Isla, Jaz, and Jimmy. He must have seen Will and me come in, but he’s staring resolutely across at the long table, at the policewoman’s black-and-white chequered hat and the sheaf of papers alongside it.

Euan clears his throat. ‘All right, let’s get started.’ He turns to the policewoman. ‘This is Inspector Lynn Urquhart. I’ll …’ Euan looks pale, tired. He sits down heavily without finishing his sentence.

Inspector Lynn Urquhart is in her late forties, with sensible short-cropped dark hair and a round, friendly face. ‘I’ve met most of you before, of course. I’m very sorry to be here in such difficult circumstances, but I’m sure you understand that we need to ask you some questions.’

Jimmy stands up. ‘Is it Lorne MacDonald?’

She presses her lips together, puts her hands on the table, and leans forwards. ‘Yes. DNA analysis has shown that the body we recovered from the Cladh Dubh dig is that of Lorne MacDonald.’