‘He sleeps most of the time these days, just like me,’ Mr McKinley says. ‘Still a good guard dog, though, aren’t you, old son? Saw off a bunch of prowlers from our backyard not so long ago, didn’t you? Paid a price for it, though. One of the wee scunners trapped his paw in the back door. Nearly tore his claw off. Still, it’s almost better now.’

The evening with Kez Becker floods back. Meanwhile, Dennis has begun a low growl. There’s no doubt he remembers me from the backyard that night.

I stand very still. Surely it must be obvious to everyone what I’ve done?

I swallow hard.

Chapter 31

‘Dennis!’ says Mr McKinley, and I look up, startled. ‘Stop that. These are my guests.’

Still Dennis growls on, his top lip curled back, his amber eyes fixed on me.

‘Andi,’ Mr McKinley says, ‘take Dennis out, would you? And, Malcolm, would you render open the casement, please?’ He sees my blank look and translates. ‘Open the window, would you, laddie?’

Andi leaves, leading Dennis behind her.

Feeling a little wobbly, I cross the room and lift the stiff sash window to let out Dennis’s stink. The breeze that enters wafts through the silks scarves and makes the wind chime hanging from the ceiling tinkle. I’m still half expecting to hear someone shout, ‘Stop, thief!’ or, ‘That’s the boy who hurt Dennis!’ No one does, of course: there’s only the three of us in the room.

I take a longer route back to my chair. On one wall is a collection of black-and-white photographs of a younger Mr McKinley, all posing with someone else. I can’t be sure, but in one it looks like he is shaking hands with the Queen when she was much younger; in another he is standing with a group of four young men in matching suits and holding a sign saying FAB. Below these, on a small wooden table, is a framed photograph, in colour, of him and a boy of about my age, their hands round each other’s shoulders, buddy-style, both of them with identical grins.

Mr McKinley has seen me looking. ‘That’s my son. He must have been about your age when that was taken.’

I point to the picture of the Queen. ‘And is that …?’

‘Aye. That is indeed Her Majesty. Private audience. Balmoral, 1968.’ He clears his throat loudly. ‘Now, tell me something. Have either of you ever heard of me?’

Susan shakes her head: ‘No.’ I say the same although in my case it’s not the truth. My heart leaps a bit. I sit back down. Is he actually going to tell us all about it?

Or does he know what I’ve done?

‘Kenneth McKinley. The Mystic o’ the Highlands they called me. You’re quite sure you don’t know who I am? How old are you, Malcolm?’

‘Eleven,’ I say. ‘Nearly twelve.’