Mr. MacKintyre—my lawyer—calls me later that morning. It’s a wonder that he not only gets through, but that he can also hear me. On almost all of my calls, I can hear the person at the other end perfectly, but intermittently they have trouble hearing me. It hasn’t been helping my progress on the mountain of administration that seems to be involved with inheriting a house. But in truth, that’s not the only thing that’s been hampering my efficiency. I feel like my brain has been split in two, with half of it trying to concentrate on the job at hand and half unable to drop the mystery of the missing fly evidence.

But Mr. MacKintyre disturbs this lack of industry and gets right to the point. “I’ve located the police report,” he says. “It turns out I know the lead investigator; I play golf with him occasionally, as it happens. It was Glen McCue.” I can hear the expectation in his voice.

“McCue.” I can hear the locksmith’s gruff voice: You want to get to know your neighbors. Glen McCue is a good man. McCue is surely a common enough surname round here. The combination of Glen and McCue, though, that can’t be common . . .

“So you do know him? I thought you might; he lives in your area.” My area. As if any of this landscape could ever belong to anyone. “He’s retired now, of course.”

Our parents were pals, you ken. Surely the investigating officer wouldn’t be a friend of the target of the investigation? “Does he have kids in their twenties?” I ask neutrally, with a sense that the world is narrowing, ruthlessly and irrevocably, to a focal point that I’d rather wasn’t me.

“Yes. James, I think, and, what is it . . . Rhona—maybe Shona, or . . .” I can almost hear the furrowing of his brow.

“Fiona,” I offer reluctantly. There’s a sudden thump from upstairs, and I glance upward as if I can see through the ceiling.

“Aye! That’s the one. So you do know Glen. Haven’t you ever discussed—”

“No, I don’t know him.” The thump comes again. A door, perhaps. The Manse possesses eddies and air currents that challenge the laws of physics. “I’ve only recently met Fiona and Jamie. Socially.” I start to climb the stairs, phone to ear.

“Always a small world.”

“Yes.” Before I can stop myself, I add, “Though I wouldn’t want to paint it.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, one of Pete’s much-used jokes. Mr. MacKintyre gives a gruff surprised bark that I can only assume is his version of laughter. I hurry on. “I’m sure I could ask Jamie if I could speak with him as a courtesy, to let him know you’ll be in contact.” Now I’m the one that’s surprised: where did that offer come from?