Fin said, “Or Tormod Macdonald, as you would have known him last.” He paused. “Did you steal the birth certificate?”

She flashed him a look. “You’d better come in.” She let go of Marsaili’s hand and lifted her gin and her cigarette, and they followed her and Dino through to the sitting room with its panoramic views across the hillside and the bay. “How did you know I was Ceit?”

Fin reached into his bag and drew out Tormod’s book of cuttings. He opened it up on the table for her to take a look. He heard her sharp intake of breath as she realized that they were all media stories about her. Torn or cut from newspapers or magazines over more than twenty years, ever since she had achieved celebrity status through her part in The Street. Dozens of photographs, thousands of words. “You might not have known what became of Tormod, Ceit. But he certainly knew what had become of you.”

Tormod took a step towards the table and looked down at them.

Fin said, “Do you remember these, Mr. Macdonald? Do you remember cutting them out and sticking them into this book? Cuttings about the actress Morag McEwan.”

The old man stared at them for a long time. A word seemed to form several times on his lips before finally he spoke. “Ceit,” he said. And he looked up at Morag. “Are you Ceit?”

It was clear that she couldn’t find her voice, and simply nodded.

Tormod smiled. “Hello, Ceit. I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

Silent tears ran down her face. “No, Johnny, you haven’t.” She seemed on the verge of losing control and took a quick gulp of gin before moving quickly behind the bar. “Can I get anyone something to drink?”

“No thanks,” Marsaili said.

Fin said, “You haven’t told us about the birth certificate yet.”

She refilled her own glass with a trembling hand and lit another cigarette. She took a stiff drink and a long pull on her cigarette before finding her words. “Johnny and I were in love,” she said, and she looked at the old man standing now in her living room. “We used to meet at night down by the old jetty, then go over the hill to Charlie’s beach. There was an old ruin there, with a view over the sea. It’s where we used to make love.” She glanced self-consciously at Marsaili. “Anyway, we talked often about running off together. Of course, he would never have gone without Peter. He would never go anywhere without Peter. He’d promised their mother, you see, on her deathbed, that he would look after his little brother. He’d had some kind of accident. A head injury. Wasn’t all there.”