The sun was dipping down towards the horizon as I left the hotel and in the evening light the island seemed to have retreated even further into the past. Two rows of terraced houses painted the colours of Neapolitan ice cream mirrored each other across a narrow street joined by a line of bunting that zigzagged from one side to the other. The road didn’t seem to go anywhere. In the distance, a hillside rose steeply, blocking anything that might tell me which century I was actually in. There was nobody around. The shops had already shut and I couldn’t help wondering what everyone actually did with themselves in the evenings in such a small place. I suppose a literary festival was a welcome diversion.

I didn’t have far to go. The Divers Inn was right next to the hotel, actually part of the same building. There was a brand-new Mercedes coupé parked outside, pristine white, with the registration CLM 16. It looked a little incongruous, sitting on its own, with seagulls wheeling overhead. It was as though it had been driven into the wrong advertisement.

The Divers Inn was a traditional bar with wooden tables and a dartboard, bells and bottles, and arched ceilings lined with ships’ badges. A Victorian diving suit, complete with helmet and faceplate, sat propped up in a corner. There were drinks laid out on the bar – red and white wine, orange juice and water – as well as a few plates of snacks. About thirty people had gathered inside but the space was small enough to make them feel like a crowd.

I immediately saw Marc Bellamy and his assistant, Kathryn, standing next to each other. He was nibbling a cocktail sausage. She had a stick of celery. They were avoiding each other’s eye and although several hours had passed since their argument, some of its rancour had followed them here. Anne Cleary, the children’s author, was talking to the festival organiser, Judith Matheson, and another man standing at her side. He had the look of an academic, bald and bearded with fanatical eyes, wearing a jacket with patches on the elbows. Colin Matheson? Somehow, I couldn’t imagine them together as a pair. I looked for Maïssa Lamar, but she wasn’t in the room and nor was there any sign of the man in the black leather jacket whom I’d seen at the airport. I hadn’t yet told Hawthorne about that. I was sure he would only make fun of me.

In fact, Hawthorne had seen me come in and made his way over to me.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked him.

‘Out and about.’ His eyes were innocent. Nothing else was. ‘What about you?’

‘Working.’

‘You work too much. You should have come out and had some fun.’