‘I know the point they’re making,’ he went on. ‘Digging up my garden just like those cables George Elkin was going on about. But it all seems so personal, so vindictive. I wish I’d never heard of that bloody power line. I thought it would benefit the island. I thought it would help secure our future. But all it’s done is tear us apart. I don’t think this place will ever be the same again.’

He turned his back on us and walked into the house. We followed him into a wide hallway that ran all the way to the garden at the back, with a flight of stairs twisting round to the first floor. The house was elegant, classical, with landscapes and horse pictures on the walls, nineteenth-century furniture (real, not repro) and everywhere a sense of neatness and order.

‘Who is it?’ a voice called out.

‘It’s Mr Hawthorne, dear.’

‘Oh.’ A door opened and Judith Matheson strode out of the kitchen, wearing an apron, drying a plate. She saw us. ‘You didn’t say you were coming,’ she said accusingly.

‘Well, I’m investigating a murder and now a woman has gone missing, so I wasn’t exactly waiting for an invitation,’ Hawthorne replied.

Judith processed this. She gave the plate another couple of wipes. ‘Take them into the drawing room, Colin,’ she said.

You can probably tell a lot about a house by whether it has a drawing room, a living room or a lounge . . . certainly about the people who live in it. A few minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on high-backed, remarkably uncomfortable sofas that surrounded a coffee table, with gold mirrors and more horse pictures on the walls. A faded grand piano stood to one side and I noticed books of Grade 2 piano music – the first suggestion that there were actually children who also inhabited this house – scattered over the top. The curtains had been drawn across the windows that would have looked out over the front garden, but I could see a greenhouse and vegetable patch round the side.

For a few minutes we chatted aimlessly to Colin, whose role, it seemed, was to keep us occupied without saying anything of any significance. Then Judith reappeared, carrying coffee and biscuits on a tray. We hadn’t asked for them. Maybe it was her way of making everything feel normal.

‘You’ve seen the garden,’ she said, before she’d even sat down. ‘It’s a wicked thing to have done. Just wicked!’

‘Actually, we’re here about the murder, Mrs Matheson,’ Hawthorne reminded her.

‘Of course. I know exactly why you’re here. But although it may not have occurred to you, everything that happens on this island is connected. My grandfather planted that lawn and four generations have been looking after it, keeping it perfect – not just for our pleasure but for everyone who passes.’