‘I probably shouldn’t say, but I remember it,’ Murdo Black says. ‘I mean, I remember it happening – the storm, him and that wee boy being lost off Kilmeray.’

‘During the Stornoway Whisky Festival?’

He nods. ‘The festival was a total washout. Òrd na Mara. Worst spring storm to hit the Hebridean west coast in twenty years. Mind you, all we got here on the east coast was about two months’ rainfall in one day, but it was enough to send most people home.’

He pushes the other piece of paper towards me. ‘Robert Reid’s wife and Lorne MacDonald’s parents raised separate actions to declare the deaths after they went missing.’

I look down at the paper.

15th April 1994

Sheriff Court, 9 Lewis St., Stornoway

An action has been raised in Stornoway Sheriff Court by Mary Reid, Pursuer, to declare that, Robert Reid, Defender, whose last known address was The Blackhouse, Ardcraig, Kilmeray, is dead. Any person wishing to defend the action must apply to do so by the 6th of May, 1994, by lodging a minute seeking to be sisted as a party to the action with the sheriff clerk at the above address.

‘Neither death was contested,’ he says. ‘The decrees were granted, and the death certificates issued.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘This is really helpful.’

‘Can I ask why you’re interested?’ he says with a shrug, a smile. ‘Like I said, we’re quiet.’

‘I’m writing a story about it. Just wanted to make sure I got my facts right.’

‘Ah! Well, it’s a sad story, all right. I knew him. Knew them. Not well, but … back then, there were always community events and the like out on Kilmeray. I used to go over a few times a year. Got to know the locals pretty well, particularly in Blairmore. They were good people. Didn’t deserve what happened.’

I take the photograph out of my bag and offer it to him. Ignore that growing weight in my stomach; the new heaviness in my chest. ‘Would you mind just having a quick look at this, then, see if you recognise anyone?’

He takes it from me, and gives me a look that is half confused, half curious. I’d been banking a little more on the latter. ‘You want me to identify the people in this photo?’

‘Yes.’

He glances down at it and then back at me. ‘Wouldn’t you be best off asking in Blairmore?’

I try an embarrassed smile. ‘I think everyone on Kilmeray is sick of me constantly asking questions. Don’t worry if you can’t help, but I’d be happy to include your name in the acknowledgements if you could.’

‘Acknowledgements? Your story is going to be a book?’

‘Well, maybe. I hope so.’ And this time the lie comes so easily I don’t have to worry about whether I sound convincing.

‘Well. That’s something indeed. I’d be more than happy to help.’ He looks down at the photo again. ‘It’s not a very good picture, is it?’ He peers at it for perhaps as long as a minute, before putting it on the desk and turning it round to face me.