‘Hair of the dog.’ He brings out two plastic cups and a bottle of wine beaded with condensation.

‘You brought wine?’

That long, lazy smile. ‘I did.’

I’m suddenly acutely aware that if the subject of my research was Will Morrison then I’ve put in a very good day’s work. I already know more about him than I do even Kelly. Never mind Robert Reid. I’m making a study of the veins on his arms, for fuck’s sake. His smile when he hands me a cup half-filled with wine is warm and careful.

‘Were you here in ’99?’ I say. ‘When I first came to the island?’

He shakes his head. ‘I would have been … around eight? Already well ensconced in the Scotstoun School for Boys.’ He smiles. ‘But I heard about you. You were like a Grimm fairy tale. Don’t be a bad little liar like Maggie MacKay or we’ll banish you from the island, that kind of thing.’

‘Really?’

‘Not really.’ He laughs. ‘A little bit really. D’you remember it? Coming here?’

I nod, thinking of that cliff, my pointing finger.

He whistles. ‘I barely remember what I did last week, never mind when I was a wee kid.’

‘I only remember bits, not much that’s useful,’ I admit. I won’t tell him that those memories are just like the nightmares I’ve had about this place – vague and indistinct but always there. Enduring and indelible. ‘What about Robert Reid? What do you know about him?’

Will leans back on his hands. ‘Only that he lived on the island for a year or so until he died. That he was a farmer, a Lewisman, who’d left for the mainland years before. That he was apparently not a nice guy.’

‘What about how he died?’

‘There was a storm. One of those once-in-a-decade jobs apparently. Big swells, dirty sea. He went into the water and was never seen again.’ He glances at me. ‘That was a far scarier Grimm fairy tale.’

‘Someone saw him? Actually saw him going in?’

Will nods. ‘Think so.’

‘I’m talking to some of them tomorrow. At Isla Campbell’s house.’

‘Well, hey, that’s a good sign. Normally, no one can even agree on who’s buying the first round after the bells without voting by committee. And if they’ve agreed to see you, then they won’t mind you asking. I mean, I’ve always thought it was weird, you know? Why would anyone walk into the sea in the middle of a storm? And why way out here, from this beach? Where the tides and swells are crazy on a good day?’

‘Wait.’ I lean forwards. ‘This beach? This is where he drowned?’

Will blinks. ‘I assumed you knew.’

A chill works its way very slowly down my spine as I look out at the waves, think of those two thousand miles of absolutely nothing until Newfoundland.

‘D’you think he could have been murdered?’

Will looks at me for a long moment. ‘That what you’re going to write about?’