“She came early and too quick. I was away, following up on a case. We werenae expecting a bairn to arrive then. But she did . . . and Mary—my wife—couldnae get to the hospital, so she went to the Manse looking for help. It was the summer, though, and you were all away.” He scratches his head. “Aberdeen, I think, visiting your grandparents or the like.” I nod. Both of them died before my father disappeared. I only have vague memories of visiting them, and most of those are of the long and tiresome car journey to get there. “Anyway, she didnae find any help there after all, and then it was too late.”

“So, your wife, she had Fiona on her own?” It’s a horrifying thought.

“Aye. In the dining room. We tried to pay your dad for the replacement of the carpet but he wouldnae hear of it.”

There’s approval in his voice for my father’s refusal. I try not to think of the state the carpet must have been in to need replacing. Dear God, I hope it has been replaced at some point since . . . “But . . . how did she even get in?”

“I cannae remember.” He looks sideways, as if the mountains beyond the glass that protects us might give him the answer, then gives up. “Ach, it was a different time. Everybody left spare keys outside, under a flowerpot or a mat. Anyroad. She loves that house, does Fi. Always has. If she was able to, she’d buy it off you in a flash.” I can hear Jamie as if he’s right next to me: She has a thing about this place. The Manse. Always has. I find I’m wrapping my arms across my stomach as if I’m physically chilled. It’s a struggle to pull my attention back to Glen. You promised Carrie, I remind myself. Benefit of the doubt and all that. “Roy tells me you need the Presumption of Death certificate to be able to sell.”

Roy is my lawyer, Mr. MacKintyre. “Yes. Without it I just own half the Manse.” Which half, I wonder feverishly. I can’t possibly have the dining room, not now that I’ve heard about the carpet, and not the box room, either. Is there any room that could be mine?

“Well, I told him that there’s been no new evidence.” He’s eyeing me carefully as he speaks. There’s only the barest hint of blue in the steel of his irises. “In my opinion, your father is most likely dead.”

It takes a moment to find my voice. “Based on what?” I ask, trying to sound like we’re discussing the relative merits of, say, taking the A9 to get to town as opposed to the back roads.

“Are you sure you want to talk about this? I’ll answer any question you have, but you ken, I’m not really the sugarcoating type—”