Kane mingled, alert to people’s responses, to his own bearing, projecting relaxation, bonhomie. A group of four Saints arrived—two men and two women, in sequins and cowboy hats—and they took up the instruments and began to play covers of pop songs. There was some tentative dancing among the crowd, then less tentative. The woman who’d been feeding beer to the donkey climbed onto someone’s back. The Two Boats Club manager danced with a barefoot man in a torn pink T-shirt—then another man cut in and there was laughter as she was passed around. The atmosphere reminded Kane of drinking in warzones, the sense of fate having thrown you together, created a little club you could join by helping make a party out of unpromising materials. And the bigger things going on around you were like a cloak.

At some point Kane got chatting to a nurse from the RAF base who said she’d come over to save money and get a tan. She spoke rapidly and not entirely coherently, trying to persuade him to get involved with a running club—“more a drinking club with a run attached if I’m being entirely honest”—then about her life and her ex. She leaned in, the ice in her G&T rattling.

“I have always believed you regret the things you don’t do, so here I am. And I don’t regret it,” she kept saying.

They got some air up by the road, away from the music, overlooking the beach.

“Nothing like a Klinka party,” she said.

“Been to a lot of them?”

“Fair few. Not many choices around here.”

“Must be a bit strange. So many guys about. Not that many ladies.”

“I guess so. It doesn’t really bother me, to be honest.”

“Things ever get out of control? I’ve been around a few bases. I know what it’s like.”

“Depends what you mean by out of control.” She smiled. Then the headlights of an arriving car drowned them. It stopped hurriedly, with an urgent air.

“Who’s that?” the nurse said. She checked her watch. It was almost one thirty a.m. A man and woman got out; there was an anxious exchange with a couple of RAF men smoking nearby. The nurse went over, returning a moment later and rolling her eyes.

“One of the local kids has done a runner. You’ve not seen a girl around, no?”

“Who is it?”

“She’s called Lauren Carter.” The nurse sighed. “Obviously, with what happened . . .”

Kane’s stomach lurched. Lauren Carter. Lauren who knew what happened, who was ready to speak. What had Thomas said? She needs a proper guard. Beyond the party, the night was a textureless black now.

“Do you know her?” Kane asked.

“Everyone knows Lauren. Let’s get another drink.”