The sister nodded. She had become very still, holding her tea in her pale, freckled hands. Taylor tried to imagine Rory’s funeral, and it made her sad. Organizing funerals was never easy when it came to dead spies. Taylor had been at officers’ funerals, listening to eulogies for lives that weren’t theirs, and it was painful. And at the back of your mind there was always the question: Is this what mine will be like? At least, as things stood, she wouldn’t have much audience to worry about. Old friends had grown away, into family-rich lives, while she didn’t seem to be making any new friends in the service. And there was no growing family of her own to refresh the stock of mourners.

Nicola Bannatyne lifted her eyes from her tea to meet Taylor’s gaze, but remained silent.

“Did you have contact with him recently?” Taylor asked.

“He sent me postcards. We wrote to each other every few weeks. Whenever possible.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say in them?”

“He’d ask for things he couldn’t get on the island, and I’d send him clippings or printouts from the internet: sports scores, music reviews. He said he needed diversions.”

“Diversions?”

“Magazines. Other things . . .” Taylor caught a look of concern flash across the woman’s face.

“Like what?”

“He said . . . For the children on the island. I imagine life’s tough for them. Things for the kids, gifts.”

“What kind of gifts?”

“Clothes, makeup. Sometimes computer games. Anything teenagers would like.”

“And you sent him those?” Taylor asked.

“Yes.” The sister’s voice was low and cold now. She no longer met Taylor’s gaze.

“Do you still have his postcards?”

“I didn’t keep them.”

Taylor imagined how DCI Rehman would have reacted to this. What had the detective said? He was seen with the victim several times over the last few months. Sometimes just with her, sometimes with other teenagers . . .

“I have to ask—as a friend of his, as well as a colleague—has Rory had any kind of trouble in the past that you’re aware of?”

“No. He was very private, as you know. I never knew anything about his life, really. But he was an incredibly kind, gentle person. You must see that. When will I get to see his body?” she asked, and before Taylor could think how to answer, the woman began to cry.

Taylor went into the kitchen to find some tissues. Then she stopped. Held to the fridge door by a magnet was a postcard identical to the one in her pocket. She took it down. This one had a message but no address. In Rory’s tight handwriting it said: