“So what did you want to tell me?” I’m desperately eager to get him out of here. I haven’t even offered him a drink. There’s an air about him that’s extraordinarily discordant with how I’m currently feeling. Like a low thrum of electricity is running through him.

“I know who’s been terrorizing you.”

“You do?” He certainly has my undivided attention now. “How? Who?”

He pauses for a beat, enjoying the buildup of suspense. “Morag.”

“What? But . . . why?” Morag. Now I know, surely, it can be over. Can it really be over?

“I dinnae ken, exactly.” He shrugs. “I think maybe she’s nuts.”

“I thought she couldn’t drive.” I’m trying it take it in. Is it over? It doesn’t feel over.

He snorts. “She cannae. Still does, though—she’s a bloody liability. She was doing near seventy the other day on the back road.” The Land Rover. “Anyroad, you can stay now,” he says earnestly. “And that’s important for the second thing—”

But I’m still trying to make sense of this. “How do you know it was Morag?”

“I saw her leave the fox.”

What? “That was days ago. Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shifts in his seat. “Well, I wanted to speak to Ali first. It is his mother, after all.” He sees my expression and moves on hurriedly. “But you’re missing the point. You can stay now, and I wanted to show you—”

“How did she get in?” How did she get access to move the bin bags, to place the skull? How did he get in for that matter?

“Never mind that. Something—”

“Seriously, Jamie, how did she get in?”

“Who cares?” he explodes. My mouth is agape in shock. He makes a show of exhaling slowly, like an adult deliberately moving past frustration with a toddler. “I told you I wanted to show you something,” he says in a more reasonable tone, reaching inside the pocket of his rain-sodden jacket. Designer, obviously. Like all of Jamie’s clothes. “Dinnae worry, it’s a good thing.” He draws out a folded sheet of paper. The hood of the raincoat is stiff; it sits half upright, flared out behind his head. Something about it is nagging at me. “Ailsa? Ailsa, are you listening?”

“Ah . . . yes.” I don’t know what’s going on here. None of this is making sense.

“Aye. Well. As I was saying, the full report is, like, fifty pages or something. But the gist of it is here.” He passes the paper across to me. It’s a letter, on headed notepaper: Genetica Biolabs. A sudden noise from upstairs whips my head away. “Ailsa, look.” His frustration is boiling up again. I’ve never seen Jamie like this.