Andrew MacNeil, born 1967, in Uig.

‘Shit.’

I click on his name, and a pop-up box appears. If someone was born less than 100 years ago, a certificate must be ordered. This can take at least 15 working days to process.

I start a death certificate search instead. Realise as I type in Robert Reid and 1994 that my palms are clammy. Excitement is fine. Although this is more complicated than excitement. Despite what Charlie said about Robert Reid having died in April and not February.

There are three entries. Portree. Kinlochbervie. North Harris. When I select the latter entry, it disappears behind another pop-up box – If someone died less than 50 years ago, a certificate must be ordered. This can take at least 15 working days to process.

‘Shit.’

When I’d asked Charlie how and where Andrew had drowned, he’d shaken his head, stood up with a wince. As I’d looked out at the horizon and thought of that black dress with white spots and my finger pointing out towards the sea, I saw that the clouds had turned dark and ominous, and were racing towards us on a rising wind. Charlie whistled for Bonny and we started moving quickly along the sand towards the steep path back onto the bluff.

‘Charlie?’ I shouted, my hair whipping around my face, sand stinging my skin. ‘Where—’

He shouted something I couldn’t hear over the now thunderous surf, and swept an impatient arm out towards the angry dark sea behind us. He didn’t speak again until we’d reached the top of the bluff and had clambered down to the shelter of the trail on the other side.

‘He died little more than a year after he arrived,’ Charlie said, reaching down to stroke Bonny’s head when she whined. ‘He wasn’t liked. He was a … complicated man. He’d had a bad past. And some folk, they can never shake a bad past. It follows them like a shadow that doesn’t need the sun. Robert thought he needed this place, these islands, to be happy. But they never made him anything close to that.’

I didn’t answer. Wasn’t sure what to say.

‘Look,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll speak to folk, tell them I’ve told you. See what they say. If anyone’s willing to talk to you. But there’s a good chance they won’t be. What I said before, about it being a hard time, back when it happened …’ He stopped, looked away as the rain finally started to come down – as hard and fast as earlier, maybe worse – and when he turned back to me, his expression was weary, wary. ‘Robert drowned in a storm. Same storm, same night, as wee Lorne did.’

‘Oh. God.’

‘I’ll let you know what they say,’ Charlie said, turning left to head back to Blairmore.

‘Wait! Where did he live?’

And Charlie had looked away from me again to point up towards the Ardcraig headland. His pause long enough that I realised I was holding my breath inside it. ‘The Blackhouse.’