“Forget it, Nick. McStrudel is my old schoolfriend. He went to my old school. It’s my name on the envelope and you can argue all you like. But this time, I’m going alone.”

*  *  *

We left King’s Cross station on the morning of the ninth.

Tim sat next to the window, looking sulky. I was sitting opposite him. I had finally persuaded him to swap the first-class ticket for two second-class ones, which at least allowed me to travel free. You may think it strange that I should have wanted to join Tim on a journey heading several hundred miles north. But there was something about the invitation that bothered me. Maybe it was the letter, written in ink the color of blood. Maybe it was the name—Crocodile Island. And then there was the money. The invitation might have sounded innocent enough, but why was McDougal paying Tim $1,000 to get on the train? I had a feeling that there might be more to this than a school reunion. And for that matter, why would anyone in their right mind want to be reunited with Tim?

I was also curious. It’s not every day that you get to meet a man like Rory McDougal. Computers, camcorders, mobile phones, and DVD players . . . they all came stamped with the initials RM. And every machine that sold made McDougal a little richer.

Apparently the man was something of a recluse. A few years back he’d bought himself an island off the Scottish coast, somewhere to be alone. There had been pictures of it in all the newspapers. The island was long and narrow with two arms jutting out and a twisting tail. Apparently, that was how it had gotten its name.

Tim didn’t say much on the journey. To cheer him up, I’d bought him a comic book and perhaps he was having trouble with the long words. It took us about four hours to get to Scotland and it took another hour before I noticed. There were no signs, no frontier post, no man in a kilt playing the bagpipes and munching haggis as the train went past. It was only when the ticket collector asked us for our tickets and Tim couldn’t understand a word he was saying that I knew we must be close. Sure enough, a few minutes later the train slowed down and Tim got out. Personally, I would have waited until the train had actually stopped, but I suppose he was overexcited.

Fortunately he was only bruised and we managed the short walk down to the harbor, where an old fishing boat was waiting for us. The boat was called the Silver Medal and a small crowd of people was waiting to go on board.

“My God!” one of them exclaimed. “It’s Herbert Simple! I never thought I’d see him again!”