‘A little. I make things; paint. I have a website.’ He pulls his hands out and lays them on the table. They give him something else to look at as he dips his eyes and studies them.

I must have looked my brother up on the internet hundreds of times, yet never once did I find him.

‘I don’t use my name,’ he says as if reading my thoughts. ‘I go by D. Smith.’

‘I’ll have a look,’ I say, unsurprised he’s chosen something unrelated. ‘It’s good to see you, Danny,’ I add, ‘even with what’s happening.’ I bow my head, cheeks flushing. ‘I always hoped you’d come back, you know.’

Danny breathes in deeply through his nostrils as he sits back and I watch him for a moment, waiting for him to say whatever is clearly on his mind.

‘You never wanted to?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘I hated not knowing where you’d gone. I couldn’t bear imagining what had happened to you.’ Tears start trickling down my cheeks again and as Danny looks up I notice his hand flinch. His eyes drift to my cheeks, wide with pain, and it looks as if my tears may break him. I quickly wipe them away again. ‘Did Mum know where you were?’

‘Yes,’ he says quietly.

‘How come she never said anything to me?’ I ask, shocked.

‘Don’t blame her. She knew I wanted to be on my own. You know I was never very good at living among people.’ He gives a small smile. ‘She was trying to do right by all of us,’ he says. ‘Bonnie hated the island, I hated the city …’ he drifts off. ‘How is Bonnie?’

‘She’s fine.’ I smile. ‘You have two gorgeous nephews. Ben and Harry, they’re twelve and ten.’

‘I don’t expect she’s handling any of this …’ He floats a hand off the table and waves it slightly.

‘Bonnie’s fine,’ I say again.

He breathes in deeply and when he releases his breath says, ‘They don’t believe me.’

‘The police?’

‘I know they don’t.’ His eyes search mine imploringly as he drops his voice and adds, ‘But I’m telling the truth.’

I edge forward, staring at him intently. His eyes don’t flick away; they look at nothing but mine. His gestures imply that he’s telling the truth.

‘So why do you think they don’t believe you?’ I ask.

‘They’re asking me things.’ He screws his eyes up now, his forehead creasing. ‘Saying she was buried in our garden.’

‘It wasn’t in it,’ I say. ‘It was in the woods.’ I shuffle on the hard chair. ‘It was pretty near our garden. Are you saying you didn’t know that?’

He gives such a small shake of his head I can’t be sure I saw it.

‘Danny, what are you saying exactly?’