She has a photograph in her hands, and I’m sure it must be the one of Paul, but as I get closer I see it’s of a girl and a woman. The picture is old, judging by the clothes they are wearing. I guess it was taken in the late 1960s or ’70s based on the short pleated skirt, the over-fussy blouse and the flicked-back fringe of the girl.

‘Is one of these women your mum?’ I ask, assuming she took this photograph when she stole her diary.

She shakes her head and puts the picture down on the pillow, away from me. I take a seat at the end of the bed.

‘And the picture of the man?’ I ask.

I sit quietly when she doesn’t immediately answer, hoping to gain her trust. I ignore the photo on the pillow; all I care about is the picture of Paul from the boat and why she has it. How is he involved in all this? I’m trying to think of how to phrase the question without her feeling that I’m interrogating her, but to my surprise she speaks unprompted.

‘Nathan,’ she says, and I give her a puzzled glance. ‘The photo is of Nathan, he’s my brother.’

I don’t understand. I’m certain the man in the photo is Paul.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘He looks like a man I met on a holiday to Myanmar recently – the one where I met Thea and the doctor – but his name was Paul.’

For the first time I get an instant response, and I can see she is trying to fight her way through the fog in her brain. ‘Paul? That’s Nathan’s middle name. Are you sure it was him?’

I nod. I’m as sure as I can be. I would recognise that hooked nose and the beady eyes anywhere. Strange as the arrangement of features sounds, he was oddly attractive – or would have been if he hadn’t terrified me with his questions and his staring.

‘Why was he on that boat?’ she asks. ‘Maybe he got my letter.’

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but she’s shaking her head furiously, her eyes screwed up tightly. For the first time it seems she wants to think clearly, but she can’t.

‘What’s your name?’ she asks, mimicking the question I asked her earlier. I’m frustrated by the change of subject, but I answer.

‘It’s Callie,’ I tell her. ‘Callie Baldwin. Are you going to tell me yours?’

‘Hannah,’ she says, so quietly that I have to ask her to repeat it to make sure I heard her correctly.

‘You said that your brother may have got your letter. What letter, Hannah?’ I ask, and it’s almost as if hearing her real name – possibly for the first time in months – shocks her into reality.