“It’s not going to be any of that list,” declares Ali.

“Maybe,” I say, carefully stirring my coffee that needs no stirring.

Ali glares at me. “Maybe?”

I have the attention of both of them. “It did cross my mind that it could be either of you.” I throw in a smile to lighten it, but nonetheless, Ben’s eyes leap to my face. He looks oddly stricken.

Ali, on the other hand, is instantly furious. “How d’you figure that? You saw Ben find it. He almost bloody tripped on the fucking thing.”

“I didn’t see it when we came in. Ben could have had it in the back of the car the whole time. Or you, Ali.” Ali looks faintly repulsed by the suggestion. Ben could be carved from marble. “It seems to me that you, Ali, haven’t been my greatest fan from minute one, and that Ben would rather I hightail it out of here and sell him the Manse. So, it could have been either of you. Or maybe you cooked this up between you to get rid of me.”

“You’re a fucking piece of work, you ken that?” Ali stands up abruptly, almost knocking over his chair.

“Relax,” says Ben laconically. He has recovered himself, but now I can’t read his expression. It’s disconcerting on his ordinarily open countenance.

I start to speak, but Ali can’t be derailed. “Relax? I dinnae have to listen to this bint tell me she thinks I’ve been launching a hate campaign for no reason. You can fucking well clean up your own fucking fox corpse, you—” He stops, and then starts to laugh, in a cold high chuckle. “Ah, but not for no reason, am I right? You think it’s a revenge campaign, on account of your thieving father.” The vitriol in his voice—thieving father—robs me of everything I was about to say. I wonder that Ali can look at me at all with that hatred for my father wrapped up inside him. He searches my face, his own expressing a warring mixture of triumph and something else. “You do, don’t you?” Indignation. The something else is indignation. It’s more convincing than any words he could say. “You’ve got a fucking low opinion of people if you think—”