The walk up the island seemed to have exhausted Fran and she was in a deep sleep. He could feel her hair against the bare skin of his shoulder.

Maurice had given them a lift back to Springfield late in the afternoon, the three of them squashed together in the front of the Land Rover, windswept and breathless just after the run from the lighthouse to the vehicle. Perez had always found the field centre administrator an amiable man, relaxed and unflustered, but today he’d seemed infected by the general tension. He’d been quiet, gloomy, and there had been none of the easy conversation Perez remembered from previous meetings.

‘Is anything wrong?’ Immediately Perez had regretted the question. He was on holiday. If there were problems at the centre it was no business of his. Fran had flashed him a grin as the Land Rover rattled over a cattle grid. You really can’t help yourself, can you? She thought his curiosity was a sort of affliction and that he’d only become a detective to give himself the licence to meddle in other people’s lives.

Maurice had taken a while to answer. ‘It’s family trouble,’ he’d said in the end. ‘I daresay it’ll sort itself out.’ He’d been born in Birmingham and still had the Midlands accent. There’d been another moment of silence while he’d concentrated on keeping the vehicle on the road. He continued speaking but his eyes were fixed straight ahead. ‘It’s my youngest daughter, Poppy. She’s always been a handful. My wife thought a few weeks on the isle might help to sort her out, keep her away from some of the bad influences at home, but it hasn’t really worked as we’d planned. Poppy is desperate to leave. She can’t, of course. I had to give priority on the plane to the visitors who wanted to get out. She feels like a prisoner here. She can’t understand that there’s nothing we can do. She’s making life difficult for everyone, especially for Angela.’

Lying in bed, Perez thought about this. About problems within families and whether Fran’s daughter Cassie would see him as a wicked stepfather when they were married and about what it might be like to have a child of his own. He loved Cassie with a passion that took his breath away at times. His marriage had failed partly because his wife had lost a baby late in pregnancy. If the child had lived she’d have been much the same age as Cassie. But would he feel the same affection if he and Fran had a baby? Would the girl feel rejected or put out?

He must have slept at last because he woke in the morning to a grey light and rain like bullets against the window next to him.

Later he and his father went out and looked at the damage. A few slates down and the roof was right off the shed that had once housed a cow. Nothing too worrying. When they came back into the kitchen, drenched and scoured by the salt, sandy wind, Fran was up. She was sitting in his mother’s dressing gown, her hands cupped round a mug of coffee. The women were chatting and from the porch where he stood to take off his boots, he heard a sudden outburst of giggling. His first wife, Sarah, had never been able to relax like that on visits to the Isle. He felt his mood lift. Perhaps it would be OK. Fran was strong enough to deal with his parents after all. He left aside the question of whether they might one day return to the Isle on a permanent basis.