“I . . .” In front of me hang a hundred, a thousand, a million and more different possibilities. I almost can’t see the road for the myriad of my father’s lives playing out before me, like overlapping cinema screens, all that could have been, might have been, perhaps was, perhaps even is. All of the things I have imagined and all I haven’t yet thought of. If I had to pick one, I might damn all the others. What if I picked the wrong one?

“Ailsa? Are you okay?”

“Yes. Sorry. No, we don’t have to submit a theory. He has to speak to the investigating office, for completeness, but apart from that it should be . . .” I hesitate. Even now, I can’t use the word the lawyer used: painless. “Straightforward. More straightforward than the lawyer down south seemed to think, anyway.” I turn the conversation back to Carrie. “But what about you? How’s the director? You’ve worked with him before, right?”

She talks and I listen as I drive. The car’s headlights don’t seem to extend nearly far enough in the darkness, and they have the odd effect of bleaching virtually all the color out of the grassy verges that are temporarily bathed in their light. I could almost believe we are driving in a black-and-white bubble. It’s a shock to see the vibrant red and white stop sign that suddenly rears up in front of us.

“Where are the rest of the cast staying?” I ask.

“A mixture of flats and B&Bs in Edinburgh.” She stifles a yawn. “We aren’t exactly worthy of Judi Dench–style accommodation. Though they’re all pretty close to the rehearsal venue, so at least they have the benefit of a short commute.”

“Wouldn’t you have preferred the shorter commute?”

“And have to endure Janey as a roommate? No thank you! This way I pocket the per diem and get to stay somewhere way nicer.” She turns toward me suddenly. “Wait, you aren’t trying to kick me out already, are you?”