“Yes.” I know it’s futile, but I try anyway. “You won’t have to speak to him, will you? He’s only seven. I bet he’s been having nightmares anyway without having to relive it all over again.” All I can see is Callum’s pinched white face, full of determination and dread.

He looks at me properly for what feels like the first time. “You’re fond of him, then.”

“I challenge anyone to meet Callum and not end up a fan.”

He smiles. There’s no wattage in it, but the intent is there. “We will need to speak to him, I’m afraid, but don’t worry, we have staff trained for this. They know how to tread gently.” I don’t say anything, though I rather doubt the staff are trained to deal with the fury of Glen if they upset his beloved grandson. Like a coward, I was enormously relieved when it was Jamie who came to collect Callum after his fateful discovery. Detective Laws considers my expression for a moment, then goes on. “You said it’s your sister that’s using the master bedroom?”

“Half sister. Yes.” There didn’t seem any point in her missing her rehearsal; I convinced her to head off to Edinburgh this morning. In truth I’m hoping the work will take her mind off all of this.

“We’ll need to speak with her too.” He pauses. “Which half?”

I must be tired; it takes me a moment to work out what he means. “Oh. Same mother.”

“Karen Innes, the painter.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“I hear she died recently. My condolences.” I still haven’t worked out the socially acceptable response, so I incline my head and fold my lips in what I hope reads as gracious acknowledgment. Though maybe I ought to double-check that in the mirror sometime. He leaves a respectful pause before continuing. “I suppose that makes your father Martin Calder?”

It can’t be merely local knowledge, since he’s not from here. He’s done his homework. “Yes.”

“He’s still missing, correct?”

He knows it’s correct. I don’t bother to confirm it. “Is this relevant?”

“Would you be willing to give a DNA sample for our investigations?”

“I . . . What?” Now I’m staring at him, at his bleached eyes set in skin that seems paper-thin, marked with faint crow’s-feet. He’s lost weight recently, I note with one part of my brain. Perhaps he’s been ill. Perhaps he’s still ill. But another part of me is computing his DNA question. “You think the bones . . . You really think it could be my father?” Hearing it out loud doesn’t make it any less ludicrous.