An elderly lady looked up from her desk as Fin and Gunn brought the cold in with them.

“Shut the door!” she said. “It’s bad enough that the wind blows in through every ill-fitting window in the place, without folk leaving the doors wide open!”

A chastened George Gunn quickly closed the door behind them, then fought to retrieve his warrant card from the depths of his anorak. The old lady examined it through half-moon spectacles, then looked over the top of them to conduct a thorough examination of the two men on the other side of the counter. “And how can I help you gentlemen?”

“I’d like an extract from the register of births,” Gunn told her.

“Well, you needn’t think you’ll get it for free just because you’re a police officer. It’ll cost £14.”

Gunn and Fin exchanged the hint of a smile.

Fin tilted his head to read the nameplate on her desk. “Have you been here a long time, Mrs. Macaulay?”

“Donkey’s years,” she said. “But retired for the last five. I’m only standing in for a few days on holiday relief. Whose is the extract you would like?”

“Tormod Macdonald,” Gunn said. “From Seilebost. Born around 1939, I believe.”

“Oh, aye . . .” Old Mrs. Macaulay nodded sagely and peered at her computer screen as she started rattling age-spattered fingers across her keyboard. “Here it is: August 2, 1939.” She looked up. “Would you like a copy of the death certificate as well?”

In the silence that followed, the wind seemed to increase in strength and volume, moaning as it squeezed through every space left unsealed, like a dirge for the dead.

Mrs. Macaulay was oblivious of the effect of her words. “A terrible thing it was, Mr. Gunn. I remember it well. Just a teenager he was at the time. A real tragedy.” Her fingers spidered across the keyboard again. “Here we are. Died March 18, 1958. Would you like a copy? It’ll be another £14.”

It took just fifteen minutes for Fin to drive them back down to the church at Scarista, and less than ten walking among the graves on the lower slopes to find Tormod’s headstone. Tormod Macdonald, born August 2nd 1939, beloved son of Donald and Margaret, accidentally drowned in the Bagh Steinigidh on March 18th, 1958.

Gunn sat down in the grass beside the lichen-covered slab of granite and leaned forward on his knees. Fin stood staring at the headstone, as if perhaps it might rewrite itself if he watched it long enough. Tormod Macdonald had been in the ground for fifty-four years, and just eighteen years old when he died.