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Another body. I keep adding to the dead. Would Finn still be alive if I hadn’t asked about Agnesa and Mama . . . about the ghosts? I keep picturing the gun pointing at his chin, his finger on the trigger, the blankness in his eyes. He wasn’t scared of dying. It was like he’d stopped living a long time ago and every day was an ordeal to be endured.

I have seen bodies before. Papa laid out on the kitchen table. Fisnik Sopa crushed beneath the wheels of a truck. My friend Ruby lying dead in my bed. If this world is my creation, I can make the suffering stop if I choose death. Nothing will exist without me.

From a distance, I see the flashing lights of the police cars weaving along the track, over the humped bridge. Cyrus is waiting at the gate, showing them where to park like he’s directing traffic at a garden party.

I have stayed out of the way, sitting in the passenger seat of the Fiat. Through the trees I can see the migrant camp, now deserted – the police cars made that a certainty. The cooking pot is next to the fire. The lame dog sniffs at the contents.

The police are talking to Cyrus. His hands move through the air as he explains what happened. He points to the fisherman’s hut and the woodpile and the body. The detective is taking notes on a computer tablet.

Other cars arrive. A tent is erected over the body. Crime scene tape is strung across the gate. A moment ago, the sky was blue, but now the clouds are closing in and the temperature is falling.

The detective is heading towards me, stepping across the grass like it’s covered in dog shit. He’s wearing black trousers and a business shirt and a fluorescent vest with the word ‘POLICE’ stitched across the chest. He leads me to a waiting police car and asks me to sit inside. He leans on the open door.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Ogilvy. I need to ask you a few questions.’ He calls me ‘Miss Cormac’, which doesn’t happen very often.

‘Firstly, can you confirm your full name and age?’

I show him my driver’s licence.

‘What is your relationship with Cyrus Haven?’

‘We share a house.’

‘What are you doing in Scotland?’

‘Researching my past.’

‘Your family tree.’

‘No.’

He frowns and waits, but I have nothing to add.

Detective Ogilvy speaks again. ‘How do you know the deceased, Finn Radford?’

‘We met twelve years ago on a fishing trawler.’

He does a mental calculation. ‘You were ten?’

‘Nine.’

Doubtfully. ‘Why were you on the boat?’

‘I was with my mother and sister. We were seeking asylum.’

‘Where are they?’

‘They’re dead.’

‘How did they die?’

‘I don’t know.’

He sighs tiredly. ‘A word of warning, Miss Cormac. It’s an offence to lie to the police. You could be charged with wasting my time or perverting the course of justice.’

‘I’m not lying.’

Detective Ogilvy regards me in silence, his pale face full of freckles that must come out every summer. I bet he tried to scrub them off when he was a kid. I did. Mama caught me in the bathtub with lemon juice and a scouring pad.

‘You’ll need to come back to the police station to provide us with a full statement,’ he says.

‘We were going home today.’

‘That won’t be possible.’

I don’t want to tell him about Angus Radford – not if Cyrus hasn’t told him already. Ogilvy moves away and signals to a young female constable, who escorts me to a waiting police car.

Cyrus is in the Fiat.

‘Why can’t I go with him?’ I ask.

‘He’ll be following us.’