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beneath the floor of a wrecked house. Would there be no fresh start? Would she have to return to London and find herself a real job, one that paid? The money her parents had left her, significant though it was, wouldn’t last forever.Quitting her job on the magazine after the accident had been necessary at the time but, in retrospect, reckless, and getting back into that sort of work was not proving to be easy.
    She put aside her empty mug, restless suddenly and needing to be outdoors. Ruairidh Forbes had pointed out a co-op a mile or so down the road where she could get basic supplies, and a walk would clear her mind. And up here, under these big skies, she could think— By now Giles would have heard the brief message she’d left on his answerphone before catching the northbound train, and she wondered fleetingly what he would have made of it. She hadn’t told him where she was going, simply that she would be away, out of town, for a while. He might choose to think, or at least to report, that it was work related. She yanked the door open. And here, where there was no Internet or mobile phone signal, he could neither find her nor contact her, and she had gained the space she needed.

Chapter 5
2010, Hetty
    Later she fell asleep in one of the armchairs and was woken by a sharp knock on the back door. She sat up, momentarily confused, to see that the light was fading across the bay. The knock came again, and she rose, glimpsing her unruly hair in the mirror as she went through to the kitchen, calling, “It’s open. Push at your side. It jams,” and she heard the thud of a shoulder against the door. It opened abruptly to reveal not the friendly policeman, as expected, but James Cameron, the collar of his donkey jacket turned up against the wind.
    â€œHallo again,” he said, examining the door-frame and running his fingers along the edge to find the sticking point. “Ruairidh’s been called to duty. Sends his apologies.” His hair blew across his eyes. “Murder and fire-raising in the same day, eh? It’s not always this exciting.” And he stepped uninvited across the threshold, followed by the cool evening air.
    He seemed to fill the little kitchen, and he looked around with undisguised curiosity, taking in the chipped Formica table and rusty rubbish bin. “Dùghall doesn’t go for the luxury end of the market, does he,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. “What does he charge these days?”
    There was something disconcerting in his manner, and she ignored the question. “Fire-raising?” she asked instead.
    â€œArson.” He continued his survey of the room, kicking experimentally at a split in the curling lino floor, grimacing at the calendar.“A young ne’er-do-well celebrated his release by torching his family’s house. Seems his woman had found solace while he was inside.”
    Arson? Such behaviour seemed out of place here. “And Mr. Forbes is taking him in?”
    He shook his head. “Someone else’ll do that. He’s just dispersing the spectators and then he’ll be along, but he asked me to come and pick you up.” She murmured her thanks while he looked through the open door into the shabby little sitting room. “And I’ll give you these before I forget.” He dug his hand into a pocket and put a set of keys on the table between them.
    â€œBut won’t he need them?” she said. “To let the police get in, to take away—?” She faltered, staring at the keys. Going into the house alone now seemed impossible.
    â€œHe’s still got his. These are mine.” She looked up in surprise. “I’ve had them ever since thieves got in some years back and stole the fireplaces. Rather after the event we put better locks on and replaced the boarding. It still gets ripped off, of course, and then all sorts get in.” Amusement flashed in his eyes again, and she turned