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scarred. ‘There’s no resemblance at all. What are you getting at?’
    â€˜Think what he’d be like now.’ The small eyes stared at me, cold and with an obstinate look.
    â€˜He’s dead,’ I said again, angry now, wondering what the hell this wretched little man was trying to dig up. ‘And the past, that’s dead, too,’ I added.
    â€˜Okay, Mr Ross. If that’s the way you feel. But do something for me, will you. Draw me a picture of your brother – as you think he might look now.’
    â€˜Damned if I do.’ I wasn’t going to help him or anyone else rake up the past. ‘Why should I?’
    â€˜I’ll tell you why.’ His voice had a sudden bite to it. ‘I don’t believe the man I saw in Famagusta was Braddock.’ The eyes, staring at me, still had that obstinate look. ‘And if he wasn’t Braddock, then who was he? That’s what I want to know, and that’s what I intend to find out.’ He dived into his breast pocket and came out with a diary. ‘I’ve got a list of five names.’ He turned the pages quickly, spreading the diary open on his knee. ‘Five men definitely identified. That’s in addition to Braddock and Leroux, the two who were still on the raft when it was washed ashore in the Outer Hebrides.’ He looked up at me then. ‘That makes seven we know for sure were on the raft at the time the Duart Castle went down. No doubt there were more, but those seven have been identified by witnesses I consider absolutely reliable. Your brother was one of them, Mr Ross.’
    I didn’t see what he was driving at. Whether Iain was on that raft or in the water didn’t seem to make much difference. It didn’t alter the fact that he was dead. ‘Who told you?’ I asked. ‘Braddock, I suppose.’
    â€˜No, it wasn’t Braddock. Braddock says he doesn’t remember. What you might call a mental blackout, I guess. Very convenient. No, your brother’s name was given to me by a man I saw in Lyons on my way back home from the Middle East – Tom Webster, an English textile buyer. He came ashore in one of the boats.’ He closed the diary. ‘I’ve seen altogether eight of the survivors, in addition to Braddock. The first seven were Canadians, I interviewed them before I left for Europe. Only one of them remembered seeing the float. He gave me two possible names. Webster gave me a further three, and he was very positive about them because he was thrown into the water and clung to the float for a time before swimming to the boat.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘The three men Webster was positive about were the Master-at-Arms, the second officer – and your brother. I’ve checked on the first two. Neither of them had any reason to change their identity. But your brother had. Did you know he was being brought back from Canada under escort to face a number of very serious charges?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said. ‘I know that. But he’s listed among those lost and it’s over twenty years …’
    â€˜He was presumed dead.’ His emphasis was on the word ‘presumed’, his voice flat and hard and very determined. ‘There’s a difference. His body was never recovered. He wasn’t identified. And that brings me to the reason I’m here. The Duart Castle was a troopship. Most of the boys sailing in her were young Canadian conscripts. A hundred and thirty-six of them were officers, newly commissioned, Braddock was one of them.’ And he went on to tell me Braddock’s story.
    I wanted to throw the man out. This monstrous, fantastic suggestion of his … But he went on talking – talking in that flat Canadian monotone. It was like a river in spate and I listened to it because I couldn’t help myself, because the seed of doubt had been sown and curiosity is a universal failing.
    Braddock had been