‘Jimmy Struthers,’ Kelly says. ‘He gives good angry Scotsman, but he’s all right. Likes his whisky a bit too much, I guess, but who doesn’t? Actually, me. It’s fucking gross. He lives next to Isla. Runs a prawn boat out of Sheltered Bay.’

While he goes on looking, I turn round in my stool to face the lounge.

‘Last ones, I promise,’ Kelly says. ‘See the sulky-looking guy in the plaid shirt over by the piano?’

I follow her gaze. Tall and dark-haired, he looks a little older than Jaz, maybe mid-forties, but his expression is that of a teenager: belligerent and persecuted.

‘That’s Alec MacDonald. He and my dad go way back. Don’t ask me why. Look up crabbit bastard in the dictionary, you’ll get Alec’s mugshot. The woman next to him with the big hair is his wife, Fiona. I’ve come to the conclusion she must be one of those women who gets off on being miserable – can’t be any other reason she’d choose to stick it out here with him.’ Kelly’s tone is almost cruel, but her cheeks are pink, and I remember the shadow that crossed her face when she mentioned Fraser’s dad.

‘Their daughter, Sheena, lives in the flat above the community shop and post office. She’s crabbit and miserable. And – uh-oh.’

She turns abruptly back to the bar as a man in his late sixties, bald-headed and dressed in a grey tweed suit that’s at least a size too small for him, crosses the lounge towards us.

‘Euan Morrison,’ she hisses in my ear. ‘His family used to own the whole island. Just shake his hand and smile, don’t speak. Otherwise we’ll be stuck here until we’re drawing our pensions.’

‘You must be Maggie Anderson,’ Euan says, smiling broadly with very white dentures.

‘Yes.’ I glance at Kelly and shut my mouth. Shake his hand.

‘Welcome to our wee island,’ he says. ‘Hope you don’t find it too boring after the glitz and glamour of the Big Smoke.’

‘I’m sure I won’t.’

‘Can I buy you two girls a drink?’

‘Sure.’ Kelly beams. ‘We’ll have two more—’

‘Get me a Ballantruan,’ a man says, pushing his way between Euan and my stool to get to the bar. It’s Alec, the angry-looking guy in the plaid shirt. ‘A double. Now that it looks like we’re going to have non-stop noise and hassle for the next Christ-knows-how-long.’

‘Ach, don’t worry, it’ll be fine,’ Bruce says, pushing a glass against the whisky’s optic lever.

‘This place’ll do good business anyway,’ Alec scowls. He rounds on Euan. ‘And you’ll clean up renting out all the bunkhouses at Long Stride, I don’t bloody doubt. While the rest of us have to put up with bulldozers, diggers, and university twats traipsing about the place day and night.’ He pokes a finger hard into Euan’s chest. ‘You said you’d do something about it.’

‘And I’ve already told you there’s nothing I can do about it,’ Euan says, as Bruce puts the whisky down on the bar. ‘Anyway. We have another visitor here. Maggie Anderson, a journalist from London.’