No hesitation. ‘Yes.’

Oh, Dougie thought. She’d have enjoyed that. Nothing Angela liked better than unquestioning devotion. And nothing she despised more.

John Fowler reached out and twisted the bottle, a deft movement that Dougie in this heightened mood thought looked like someone wringing the neck of a chicken. He watched the spinning glass, saw it stop. It was halfway between him and Hugh but he wanted this over. He couldn’t stand the waiting. ‘My turn then,’ he said. He felt he couldn’t breathe. The questions would be about sex. Or about Angela, which came to the same thing.

Hugh stared at him. ‘Did you kill Angela Moore?’

Dougie relaxed. ‘No.’ An easy question. And Hugh was the mischief-maker. If any of them was going to turn him into a figure of fun, it would be Hugh.

He turned to face the others. Now the worst was over he was almost enjoying being the centre of attention. John Fowler was watching him. It was out of character for the man to be here, playing a stupid adolescent game. Usually Fowler went to bed early with his wife. Straight after the cocoa and the biscuits and the calling of the log. Why was he here? Did he think they’d like him, accept him and believe his records again, just because he stopped up drinking with them? But Fowler didn’t speak and it was Ben who asked the next question.

‘Do you know who killed Angela?’

Dougie paused for a moment, but suspicion wasn’t knowledge. ‘No.’ He looked at John again, waiting for the last question.

‘Have you ever strung a bird?’ Fowler asked. ‘Have you claimed a record you weren’t sure about?’

It was the last thing Dougie had been expecting. Fowler was the stringer, not him.

‘Well?’ Fowler said gently. Hugh looked on, smiling.

Dougie was tempted to lie, but he could feel himself blushing.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Will you tell us about it?’ Fowler again. Like some priest, encouraging confession.

‘No.’ Dougie reached out and spun the bottle. It jerked and bounced on the table. When it stopped it was pointed directly at Hugh.

Dougie found that stupid, demeaning questions were running through his head. The sort of questions the bullies at school might have asked. ‘Have you ever pissed yourself? Fancied a bloke?’ But in the end, the worst question he could think of was the one he’d just been asked.

‘Are you a stringer?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’ He’s lying, Dougie thought. We’ve all exaggerated a record at some point in our birding life. Hugh seemed as still and white as if he’d been carved from ice.

‘Have you ever been in love?’ That from Ben, who was leaning forward across the table.

‘No!’ The answer swift and contemptuous.

‘Do you hate anyone?’ Fowler’s question was courteous, interested.

Hugh paused for a moment. Dougie thought he wasn’t considering the answer. It was clear he had that immediately. He was wondering whether he should share the information with them.

‘Yes,’ Hugh said at last. ‘I hate my father. I always have.’

He reached out and Dougie thought he was planning to spin the bottle again, though surely it was Fowler’s turn to be the victim and there was no need. Instead Hugh picked up the bottle and set it upright on the floor beside him.

‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go to bed.’

‘Hey.’ Fowler looked round at them all. ‘What about me? Don’t I get a go?’

‘We’re not interested in you.’ Hugh sounded like a spoilt toddler. ‘We don’t care what you have to say.’

Chapter Fifteen

As soon as it was light Dougie was at Golden Water to check that the swan was still there. He’d left Hugh asleep. The boy’s mobile phone was on the table by the side of his bed, set to silent, but it had vibrated just as Dougie was getting up. Dougie had looked at the caller ID, thinking it might be a birder he knew wanting more information. Dad, the display read. The father Hugh claimed to hate. The father who’d paid for his travels and his smart school and was probably subsidizing his stay in the North Light. Spoiled brat, Dougie thought again.

The clouds were higher, less dense, and the wind wasn’t quite as strong: the water on the pool was ruffled but not as choppy as the previous day. The swan was at the east side of the pond. He saw it immediately and tried to decide what he thought about that. Was he pleased that the waiting birdwatchers still had a chance to see it? Or disappointed? Would the bird be devalued if it was seen by more people? He thought he was pleased. The worst scenario would be for it to fly on to Shetland mainland, where the birders would see it without having to make the pilgrimage to the Isle.

He attached his digital camera to his telescope and took photographs of the swan. The image stabilizers factored out the windshake. These would be good, clear photographs and there’d be a market for them in birding magazines. He’d make enough in fees for another trip to the island. On his way back to the lighthouse he met Ben and Hugh; they were walking south, presumably hoping to see the swan too.

‘Hey,’ Hugh said. ‘You should have woken me up. I’d have come with you.’

It was as if the evening game, the strange episode of the spinning bottle, had never happened, as if this was another man altogether.

‘The bird’s still there,’ Dougie said. He heard his voice sounding curt, the anger underneath it. He nodded at the two younger men and was just about to continue back to the North Light to breakfast when he remembered the phone call.

‘Your dad rang. Did you see?’ Dougie knew it was malicious, but he couldn’t help himself. He was curious too. What was it with Hugh and his father?

‘You didn’t answer it?’ Hugh almost spat out the words.

‘Of course not. It was your call.’

Dougie was shocked when he got to the field centre to see Poppy in the kitchen, leaning against the workbench with a bowl of cereal in one hand and a spoon in the other. He’d almost forgotten about Maurice Parry and the girl, they’d been hiding out in the flat for so long. She looked younger than he remembered, less aggressive, almost attractive without the make-up and the stuff in her hair. He stared awkwardly for a moment, then he called through from the dining room: ‘Are you OK?’

She nodded very quickly but she didn’t speak. Perhaps her mouth was full of food. Jane came bustling through with tea and toast. She was wearing a long blue apron over jeans. Dougie thought she could have been working in one of those smart cafe bars in the city centre, where sometimes he took a woman from work. ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘The others have all finished.’ He wondered if she was having a go at him, but he didn’t think so. ‘Bacon and egg?’

He nodded. ‘If it won’t put you out. Sorry. I’ve been down to Golden Water to see the swan.’ He poured himself a mug of tea, but remained standing, so he could talk to her through the kitchen door. She had bacon keeping warm, but moved a frying pan on to the cooker to do his eggs.

‘It’s still there then?’ Jane splashed some oil into the pan, but looked at him and seemed genuinely interested. Poppy just stood, filling her face, saying nothing. ‘I’ve already had some birders on the phone,’ Jane went on. ‘There won’t be any flights today, but tomorrow looks good for the boat and the plane.’ She cracked two eggs. The oil spattered and hissed. Dougie suddenly wondered if it would be possible to frighten the swan away. Maybe there was an islander with a gun, who might fire very close to it and scare it off the island. He thought of all the smug birders tipping out of the plane and running up to Golden Water, only to discover that the swan had just left. He felt himself smile, but tried to control his expression. After all, that wasn’t what he really wanted.