‘But yeah. What if she did? She could have coached me. It’s not impossible.’ The squeeze of my fists; the hotness of my tears. I’m Andrew MacNeil. I’m Andrew MacNeil! And Mum kneeling in front of me, holding my hands, looking up at me with that serene smile. Yes, you are.

‘Maybe she read about him, his death. Knew he’d died within weeks of me being born, and realised she could use it.’ Because while that one memory has always been white and sharp and never diminished, I don’t remember saying Kill Merry over and over again until she listened; I don’t remember freaking out over a Scottish travel show about the Isle of Lewis and Harris. I don’t remember why we came here.

I look out the window at the Port Authority buildings and the long piers reaching out into the Minch. Despite the fading light, I can see ominous black clouds on the distant horizon. ‘Or it could have been someone else.’

‘Who?’

I think of Gordon Cameron. Even if he is the clown from my birthday party, the grinning gold-toothed actor that came to Mum’s soirees, it doesn’t mean that he wasn’t a documentary filmmaker too. That’s possible.

I try to meet Will’s gaze. ‘I don’t know. Maybe the filmmaker, the director, maybe he used Mum somehow. Maybe he had an agenda of his own.’

Will’s cautiously dubious expression makes me feel defensive. I know I’m clutching at straws, but everything I learned in the town hall today is too much disappointment – perhaps too much reality – all at once. And I feel the need to fight back. ‘But how did she know, Will?’

‘Know what?’

‘How did she know that Robert Reid’s real name was Andrew MacNeil? If they were the same person – and I think they were – how did she know?’

‘Huh.’ He leans back in his chair. ‘You’re right. She had to have known him.’

‘Or someone who did. Maybe even someone who believed he’d been murdered, and wanted to draw attention to it.’

‘Okay, so why don’t you ask her?’ Will says. ‘Your mum.’

‘I can’t.’ And this time, along with the grief and guilt, there’s anger. Far more than there’s ever been before. ‘She died.’

‘Shit. I’m sorry.’

I shrug, shake my head. Press my lips together as I look back out the window. Because for the hundredth time, I want to tell Will – I want to tell someone – the whole ugly truth about why I’m really here. And I can’t.

‘Christ, though, Maggie. Do you really think he was murdered? I mean, I’m trying to imagine any of them actually bumping someone off. Euan’d likely pay someone else to get their feet wet, and for someone who’s lived their whole life on an island, Bruce gets freaked out by a spring tide.’ Will’s smile is pained. ‘Alec could shout a person to death, I guess.’

And it’s his smile that snaps me out of my selfishness. These are people Will lives with, has known almost all his life. Me using him as a sounding board isn’t just unfair, it’s monumentally inconsiderate – even for me.