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slippers. Magda was a shock to the neighbours with her generous curves, her white-blonde hair, scarves and long gypsy skirts. She would saunter past, hips swaying, with a nod, never a word, as if she knew she was too good for us. But when Magda left, legging it to London with some builder bloke, she broke Eric’s heart.
    Two days after Eric had talked to Rod, I had a brief interview with Alex Parnell at the Eaglesham Arms. Parnell was either a self-made man or a cowboy builder, depending what paper you read. He might have owned property worth six million but the broad Glaswegian in his voice was still detectable. Good nutrition and an iron will to succeed in life had got him where he was today, yet his thick neck and broad shoulders showed he was only two generations away from the Glasgow docks; he wouldn’t be past sticking one on you if you crossed him. His fringe reminded me of Hitler but he looked much younger than his fifty-three years. Like Eric, he was a man of few words. He looked at me, my black sweatshirt, my Rohan trousers, my trail boots, my small rucksack slung over my shoulder. Five eight, about ten stone, acne, different. I could see him calculating. He offered me the job there and then but gave me no idea of what I was supposed to do except a casual mention of a new wife who was lonely, a young son, Charlie, and a house in the middle of nowhere.
    That meeting was the start of the chain of events that got me here, being bounced around in a Land Rover at one in the morning in a remote glen, because a woman had fallen from the sky.
    ‘How is Charlie?’ asks Eric, his own attempt at small talk.
    ‘He’s a bright wee kid. He would benefit from going to nursery, being with kids his own …’
    ‘Alex will not allow that.’
    ‘True,’ I say. ‘But he is illogical.’
    ‘And you are “best practice” at logic.’ He laughs. ‘Was it bad, the accident?’ He changes gear.
    ‘It was not good. She died.’ I know I can sound callous, Soph has warned me about it. ‘It was so weird; that guy was stopped at the light and she just fell on to his windscreen.’
    He snorts with incredulity.
    ‘No, really. She died from an internal haemorrhage. No way back from injuries like that.’
    ‘And they have no idea where she came from? Can’t be from round here. Was she flung out a car or something?’ Another noisy gear change.
    ‘Not that I recall, and I would.’ My eyes sweep over the barren landscape; I’m thinking out loud. ‘If they threw her out a car they must have known this place well. She fell to her death, in the middle of nowhere, naked. She was brought here and abandoned all right.’
    He nods, conceding my point. ‘You make sure you tell that to the police tomorrow.’
    ‘I did recognize her though.’ I say the words into airspace; it still seems unreal.
    ‘That would be bizarre.’ He takes his eyes off the road for a minute and looks at me. He is pale and red-headed, bald at the top. The unruly curls round the side dance as he moves his head.
    ‘I am sure she’s a woman who went missing before Sophie did.’
    He is dismissive. ‘Really?’
    I nod.
    ‘Maybe in your circumstances – with Sophie and everything – you might see things that are not quite there.’
    I stay silent and look out the window.
    ‘What I mean is, when Magda left I thought I saw her everywhere – a mere turn of a head or a glimpse of a figure. Yet every time I took a closer look, there was no resemblance at all.’
    ‘She was very pretty; the wee lassie across the road thought Magda was a princess.’
    Eric smiles, recalling that story. Magda was a rare exotic creature in Eaglesham, which was probably the reason she legged it. ‘What I mean is, I think some small antenna of the brain is always on the lookout. It becomes more sensitive, it sees what it wants to see.’
    ‘That was Lorna Lennox,’ I say. ‘I never forget a face and I was holding her head in my hands.’
    ‘And she died in your arms.’ He