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spoken to.’
    A shiver ran through me as he focused once more on my sister. ‘I went there once and I didnae like it. Everyone tearing aboot.’ He stared down at her flares. ‘You call those bell-bottoms, I suppose.’
    She nodded.
    â€˜Can you see what they’re doing to my polished floor?’
    She looked down. ‘Dripping a bit,’ she answered.
    â€˜Shall I call Mrs McTavish to come and clean up after you?’
    She shook her head and swallowed. ‘No, of course not . . .’
    â€˜Then take them off, lassie, and hang them here where they can dry.’
    She stood there for a long time, eyes down, afraid to look at the Laird with his sharp eyes on her.
    â€˜It must be that terrible traffic doon there in London that’s made you deaf,’ he roared, and Binky glanced at me, trembling as her hands went instinctively to the low-slung waist of her flares. She released the belt, unpopped the buttons, and wriggled her bottom as she pulled them down, sliding one at a time out of the legs and hanging the flares by the fire.
    The Laird spent like an hour studying her long white legs and then pointed to a straight-backed dining chair. ‘Sit,’ he said, and she did so.
    He turned his concentration to me. ‘I suppose it was your idea to climb my walls and trespass on my property. Did you break the lock on my barn?’
    â€˜No. Yes. I mean . . .’
    â€˜You’re not even sure. You gained entrance to my wee barn and what do you do, you soil the hay withyour piddle.’ I hung my head. ‘Now, lassie, what would you do aboot this criminal behaviour on our wee island if you were in my shoes?’
    I looked down at his shoes. They were huge; he had the biggest feet I had ever seen. His kilt was the same colour as the flames climbing up the chimney, fiery red with maroon stripes running across vertical lines the same shade of African violet as the trim on the car. I could smell the heady scent of pine and wood smoke. Steam was rising from Binky’s flares. I looked up with a hopeless shrug.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I finally managed.
    â€˜You’ve committed a crime.’
    â€˜I didn’t mean to.’
    â€˜Ignorance is no excuse in the eyes of the law, lassie,’ he said. ‘You may be able to get away with this behaviour in London. Not here.’
    He turned to warm his big hands and I felt a tingle of fear run up my spine, fear and déjà vu. The Laird turned back and faced me again, feet apart, hands behind his back, the pose of an old-fashioned policeman.
    â€˜Take your blouse off, lassie.’
    The words entered the room as if from a distance. Of course Mister Cartier that day in his office had started out saying the same thing. That’s where it had started; that’s where it always starts, I imagined. But it was different this time. There was no escape. We were in the Laird’s clutches. He could do whatever he wanted. My throat felt constricted and my heart was hammering inside my chest.
    â€˜Please,’ I said eventually. ‘I’ll pay for the lock.’
    â€˜You’ll pay?’
    â€˜Yes, of course. Anything.’
    â€˜You hear that, Byron: anything, she said. Do you believe her?’
    â€˜I wouldnae like to say, Milord.’
    â€˜I will. Honest.’
    Again we were silent. His eyes drilled into me. ‘Take off your blouse,’ he said. His voice now was melodious, almost playful.
    â€˜I didn’t mean that . . .’
    He laughed. ‘Ah, you see, Byron, you were right. You’ve never been right before, but this time you’re right. You should write it doon in your diary.’ The Laird recovered his mobile phone from somewhere inside his kilt. ‘What’s the number of Sergeant Doyle?’
    â€˜It’s in the phone, I told you. You just press the letter P.’
    â€˜Why’s it P and not D, for heaven’s sake,