My face heats up. ‘Really? That is … I did hear something about that.’

‘Might be of some use, you never know,’ he says, handing it over.

I look down at the photocopy and its headline. ‘Child’s Bizarre Past-Life Murder Claim’. I wince a little at the large black-and-white photo – a memory that’s not quite a memory – me in a plain knee-length dress this time, no wellies, hair whipping around my head; Mum next to me in a tightly belted coat that I remember now was fire-engine red, a strange half-smile on her face. We’re standing in front of a dark, narrow corridor between steep rock walls, and I start when I realise that it’s the Valley of Ghosts. A shiver pulls at the hair on the back of my neck. And when I glance at the only other person in the picture, a dark-haired man in a badly fitting suit, grinning wide, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up even straighter.

I look at the caption under the photo. Maggie MacKay, 5, with her mother, Vivienne, and Glaswegian documentary filmmaker Gordon Cameron.

I look back at Gordon Cameron. His grin, and his left canine more than three-quarters gold.

Remember Mum’s cheeks glowing and eyes happy-bright. He’s an actor. He’s going to play Javert in Les Mis at the Pavilion next month.

It’s the clown from my birthday party.

CHAPTER 13

I find Will sitting in a quiet corner of the Harbour View Bar on the first floor of the Crown Hotel.

‘I see you’ve made a friend,’ I say, nodding at the big carved wooden stag head on the wall behind him.

‘Aye. Not half as bonny or interesting as you, though.’

I barely resist giggling and then the urge to slap myself as I sit in the sumptuous leather armchair next to his.

‘Jack,’ he calls over to the barman. ‘Can I have a pint of Tennent’s, and …’ He looks at me.

‘Just a pinot grigio, please.’

‘So.’ Will leans forwards. ‘Did you find out what you needed?’

‘Charlie was right,’ I say. ‘About the date of the storm, the evening Robert and Lorne died. April ninth.’

‘So …’

I feel a prickle of embarrassment. ‘Seven and a half weeks after my birthday.’

‘Are you disappointed?’ Will’s tone is completely neutral, but I feel that prickle get hotter.

I’m saved from answering by the barman approaching the table with our drinks, and I accept mine gratefully, clinking it against Will’s pint before taking a long cool swallow. I look back across the bar, because it’s easier than looking at him.

After popping into the GP surgery on the way to the Harbour View, I’d nervously taken advantage of Stornoway’s 4G to google Gordon Cameron + actor + Glasgow. Found an entry on Mandy, a free job platform for cast and crew. His profile pic showed a dark-haired man of the right age; unsmiling, teeth hidden. His credits were few and far between, nothing I’d heard of, but he’d listed his contact as his agent, JN Entertainment. I’d phoned the number while looking out across the harbour, holding my hair out of the wind. And as it rang out, high and tinny, all I could think was Don’t take this away from me, Mum. Don’t. When it clicked into a recorded message, my relief was far too big.