“Will you shut up about the half sister thing?” says Carrie irritably. The nurse looks at her face, then mumbles something like, I’ll leave you to it, then, and makes a hasty exit. “It’s such a stupid phrase. It’s not as if anybody has the other half of me.”

“It’s not like that.” I’m genuinely surprised. “I didn’t . . . I’ve never wanted to presume.”

“Oh.” She absorbs that for a moment and smiles, the wondrous smile that so rarely comes. “I choose whole sisters, then.”

“Whole sisters it is.”

We talk on the way home without covering anything meaningful, but I know she’ll get to the things that matter in her own time. It’s a bright day, with patches of sunlight painting the slopes of the glen, but it doesn’t feel fixed; the weather might change at any moment. After a while Carrie tells me that Pete has been going spare, and he’s flying up at the weekend. “Oh, I forgot to say, he gave me a message for you. In connection with the painting—what was it? No Safe Place? Morbid title.”

There’s something in her voice. “Yes. From the Danish guy?”

She shakes her head. “Not Danish, Scottish. I never said he was Danish; he just lives in Denmark. Hang on.” She changes gears for a roundabout with a series of alarming lurches. “I bloody hate driving a manual,” she mutters.

“I’m not so keen on you driving one either.” She sticks her tongue out at me. “But go on,” I press her, when the road looks thankfully clear of any obstacles. “The Scottish guy living in Denmark?”

“You’ll never believe his name.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Gordon Jamieson.”

“Wait . . .” She is nodding beside me as the penny drops inside my head. “No! Ali’s dad, I’m guessing?”

“The very same.” She glances across at me, which worries me slightly, as she needs to make a turn up ahead. “Does that make any sense to you?”

“I’m not sure yet.” But I’m beginning to have an inkling.

“Well, he’s coming to the funeral, apparently, whenever it happens.” The police haven’t released my father’s bones yet. “You can speak to him then.” She glances across again. “Does it feel different? Knowing after all this time your father is dead? That he didn’t . . .”

“Abandon me?”

“Yes.”

“I guess it does.” I feel lighter, somehow, though that could be due to no longer being slowly poisoned. “Though it also makes me feel bad for ever having doubted him.”

“Don’t be silly. Anyone would have, under the circumstances.”

“Maybe.” Logically she’s right, of course she’s right. But it may take some time to reconcile that within myself.