I almost laugh. There’s so much I could say, but how to say it without sounding entirely nuts? “Everything about this house is out of the ordinary, apparently. According to TripAdvisor, at any rate.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems the Manse is haunted. Animals fear to tread the very grounds. Strange bangings in the night, the feeling of being watched. And that’s on top of the appalling mobile reception and questionable decor.” He looks at me dubiously. “Seriously. Check out TripAdvisor. It’s educational.”

“Mmm. But have you yourself noticed anything odd?” He flaps a hand to stave off the next flippant remark that he rightly guesses is on the tip of my tongue. “Other than the bones, I mean?” I can’t tell him about the flies, or the bin bag, or the dead animals, or the person I did or didn’t see in the window, as I have evidence for none of it. And then he will ask Carrie, and Carrie will say I’m overwrought, not sleeping well . . . I shake my head. “Are you sure?” he presses. I can see he’s noted my hesitation. “It seems very . . . personal, this. Certainly for the skull. Are you sure there isn’t someone who has a grudge against you? Or Carrie?”

“Well, someone threw a stone at me in the garden one night, though it wasn’t a big stone and it wasn’t thrown very hard, and then there was the newspaper . . .”

One eyebrow rises a millimeter or two. From him, that’s an enormous reaction. He actually starts to take notes. I hunt for the newspaper whilst explaining both incidents, but it’s not where I left it. Maybe Carrie moved it.

“Is there anyone with some kind of personal vendetta?”

“Believe me, I’ve been thinking about it. I haven’t lived here for twenty-seven years, remember, and Carrie has never lived here before—we barely know anyone round here. If the newspaper is connected, I suppose it could be someone who’s targeting me because of my parents . . .” I pull back from mentioning Morag. The poor woman is ill; I can hardly visit the police on her. I splay my hands and exhale heavily in frustration. “But it doesn’t make sense to blame me. I was only seven at the time.”

“Well,” he says, but he’s still frowning slightly. I can’t tell if he doesn’t believe me or if this is what he does whilst he’s processing. “Maybe someone sees things differently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No.” He flips over the cover of his notebook, signaling that our interview is over. “I don’t either, yet.”