Yates turned. “Is there anything else you want to tell us, Miss Mackenzie?” Surtsey held his gaze, blinked, and shook her head.

She kept it as dry and factual as possible but it still felt seedy, talking about her relationship to two strangers, two middle-aged men who would give their back teeth to have someone like her interested in them. Two fat old guys who would probably enjoy thinking about it. It was a kind of abuse, having to detail her interactions with Tom, it debased the idea of the two of them.

When they were together it had felt sincere, fun, innocent somehow. She realised how stupid that seemed as she talked about it.

She felt ashamed as they asked for details. The truth was she hadn’t really cared about Alice and the girls, hadn’t given them any thought when she was with Tom.

Of course it was his fault as much as hers, in fact more so. He was the married one, for God’s sake, the one being unfaithful.

She imagined saying that to Alice: It’s not my fault, it’s your dead husband who slept with someone behind your back; he’s the one who betrayed you and his children.

He’s the one not thinking about you and not caring about the consequences.

She looked at Flannery and Yates. They were on Tom’s side, men like them always would be.

They might be having affairs too, using their position to impress or manipulate someone younger into sleeping with them.

Bristled

Wasn’t that exactly what Tom had done? Surtsey bristled at the idea she was an innocent ingénue, swayed by his charm, but the more she talked about him the more it sounded like that’s exactly how it was. She ran out of words for the cops.

They gave each other a look as if they’d just smelt something rotten.

“And you didn’t think to mention any of this on the Inch when his body was discovered?” Yates said. Surtsey pictured Tom’s body.

“I was in shock,” she said.

“Maybe you felt ashamed,” Flannery said. “How do you mean?”

“Sleeping with a married man.”

“I’m not ashamed.”

“Guilty, then.”

“You don’t get to judge me,” Surtsey said.

The temperature dropped a few degrees in the room. Yates narrowed his eyes.

“We’re just trying to establish the situation.” “No, you’re not,” Surtsey said. “You’re harassing me. Making moral judgments about my sex life. It’s not relevant.”

“It’s very relevant,” Yates said. “It gives you a motive.”

“A motive for what? You don’t even know if Tom was killed yet.”

“We’re working on the presumption he was,” Yates said. “Forensics should confirm it soon.”

“It doesn’t give me a motive,” Surtsey said. “I loved him.”

She was surprised to say it, but it felt like the truth. Flannery’s eyebrows shot up. “So you loved him and he wouldn’t leave his wife.”

Surtsey couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, I knew what I was getting into.”

Yates sucked through his teeth. “It sounds like you didn’t know what you were getting into, given that your married lover has just been found dead.”

“I shouldn’t even have to say this but I had nothing to do with it.”

Carefully

Yates moved his tongue around, like he was trying to dislodge food from his molars.

“Please tell us your whereabouts leading up to the discovery of Professor Lawrie’s body.”

“I was at the Grant Building from about 10 in the morning. Before that I went to see my mum at the St Columba’s hospice up the road.

“Before that I was here with my house mate Halima and sister Iona.”

“And what about the day before he was found?” “The same. At the hospice seeing mum in the morning, then the office all day, then back here.”

Yates watched her carefully. “And you were at home for the whole evening?”

Surtsey thought about coming in the back door and meeting Halima in the kitchen. “Yes.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

Surtsey felt her leg tremble, tried not to look at it. “Halima. I was here with her all night.” “What did the two of you do?”

She thought about the grass, the red wine, the image of Tom in her mind, her wet dress from the sea spray, the saltiness on her lips.

“Drank wine and watched crap TV.”

“What did you watch?” Flannery said. He hadn’t spoken in ages, and his voice unsettled her. “Comedy stuff. Parks and Rec, Kimmy Schmidt.” Yates diligently wrote that down in his book. Flannery took a deep breath and shifted his weight on the sofa, making it creak.

Yates tapped the pencil against the pad, then closed it.

“We’ll speak to your housemate and get back to you. Until then, try not to sleep with any married men.”

Surtsey dug a fingernail into her own leg to stop from blurting out a string of expletives.

The two men got up and headed for the door, trailing an air of entitlement.

Flannery was already in the hall when Yates turned in the doorway and fixed Surtsey with a look.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us, Miss Mackenzie?”

Surtsey held his gaze, blinked, and shook her head.

Recorded

“Come on.” Surtsey listened to the burble of the phone ringing, five times then it went to voicemail. Halima’s recorded voice. “Leave a message.” “Hal, it’s Sur, call me back soon as you can. It’s super-urgent. Seriously.”

She scuffed over the sand and kicked at a rope of sea-weed, releasing a squelch of liquid over her shoes. “Damn.”

She looked along the beach. The tide was in, a soft shimmer of waves throbbing against the coast. The sky was gauzy, high haze diffusing the light into a veil over the world.

The Inch was a spectre out there, Fife unknowable behind it. She squinted against the fuzzy brightness, longed to see a pillar of smoke driving up from the island, lava spewing from the vents.

It was crazy but she missed the island even now. It was so much a part of her, integral to her life, that she couldn’t bear to be away from it for too long.

More tomorrow.