He called one of his staff over to get the families booked in while he checked the boathouse to see if the three rowing boats he’d had to pull from the water last week were repaired and varnished yet. Major repairs were carried out in the winter, and the wooden vessels had only needed a tweak or two. The boats were his livelihood and they needed looking after properly.

To an outsider, the boatyard looked like a tip; a junkyard of detritus and bits of wood. In fact it churned out new boats every year, and a launch was currently being renovated in the shed. The Lady of the Lake was a stunning ninety-seater, a 1929 model; once a dayboat on the Amsterdam canals, then a tourist tripper on Lake Windermere, she’d made her debut on Derwent Water in 1985. She’d needed a season out of the water and a loving refurbishment. Graeme swung open the doors of the main shed and admired the gleaming mahogany and oak panelling. Her name had been repainted and she looked glorious and ready for action. He sucked in the morning air tinged with varnish and cleaning chemicals. But something else caught his attention.

‘Damn cats!’ Graeme was a dog lover, and to him, cats were vermin, killing local wildlife and scavenging from the campsite two hundred yards down the shore. Today one of them had obviously caught a bird and brought it in here to rot, or perhaps something bigger, like a rat. He made a cursory circuit of the boat, finding nothing but noting that the smell was worse near the stern, especially by the cabin. He tutted. He’d have to climb up there to make sure. The last thing they needed was the Lady being put back into service with an animal carcass somewhere on board.

He went back out into the morning sunshine and towards the smaller shed, where the rowing boats were upended and ready to be carried back to the marina. Two were six-seaters and one a four-seater. They took a good hammering during the peak season, but they were sturdy craft and had been in service since before the 1950s. All the wooden vessels in the marina were way older than Graeme, and they’d no doubt outlive him too.

It wasn’t until lunchtime that he got the opportunity to tackle the problem of the Lady’s suspected passenger. He ate his sandwich before venturing back to the shed with a ladder, thinking that whatever he might have to dispose of could well put him off his food. Trade had been steady throughout the morning and he pushed aside the worries that plagued him throughout the long, quiet winter, as he did every year. His was essentially a seasonal income, and he’d been through some tight scrapes.