They both shake their heads. “There are barely enough kids round here to make up a gang,” Ben says.

“Fi, Jamie, Piotr, Glen . . .” Ali counts them off on his fingers. “Do you ken anybody else?”

I start to shake my head and then stop. “Well, there was that woman at the hotel who was rude about my mother.”

Ben winces even as Ali asks, “Who was that?”

“Mor—” I start, but Ben is speaking over me.

“Your mum,” Ben says gently to Ali.

“Ah fuck,” says Ali dismally, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Holly—my sister-in-law—said she’d gone off on one, but I didnae get the details.” He turns to me. “I’m sorry about that. She has Parkinson’s. And dementia too, now, we think.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as she is,” he says dismally, but there’s no meanness in his words. “But it wouldnae be her; she’s all talk and no trousers. And she’s not allowed to drive anymore, so she couldnae even get herself here.” He thinks again for a moment. “It doesnae make sense. Nobody has anything to gain.”

“You said you’ve felt like you were being watched. Have you actually seen anyone?” Ben presses on.

I hesitate. “Once,” I admit. I hesitate again, remembering that triangular shape. “I thought I saw someone . . .”

“Where?” asks Ali.

“I was at the end of the garden. I thought I saw someone inside. In the upstairs window.” I’m leaning against the countertop now, and I find myself throwing an involuntary glance out the kitchen window, as if I might see myself at the end of the garden, looking up. “In the box room. It was locked before I got the locksmith over, but when he opened it up, there was dust everywhere, except on the boxes.”

“Christ,” says Ali faintly. Then he rallies. “You need some security cameras. We sell them at the shop; come and see me there tomorrow and I’ll sort you out.” My face must be showing my ignorance, because he explains. “I’ve got a hardware shop in town. The other family business,” he adds, with unexpected humor. “We’ve got a whole line of this stuff, motion sensors, the lot. I’ve even got a guy who will fit it all for you. Here.” He fishes in a pocket for his wallet and pulls out a card to hand to me. Alistair Jamieson, Managing Director, Jamieson’s Hardware.

“Thank you.” I’m unexpectedly filled with something that might be approaching warmth for him. I put the card carefully on the counter. “You know, Ali, you’re in danger of being nice to me.”

He grunts. “Dinnae worry, it willnae last.”

“I wouldn’t vote for Scottish independence.”

He groans theatrically. “And that’s it. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Fucking Sassenach,” he mutters, half smiling as he reaches for the bottle again.

“Fucking Sassenach bint, surely.”