Bonnie nods and I wait for her to say something about Mum, but instead she says, ‘Do you think he’s still alive?’ She offers me a biscuit, grabbing one for herself and pushing it into her mouth as she looks at me expectantly.

‘God, Bonnie. What a thing to say.’

She shrugs and continues to watch me as she chews intently. ‘I think Mum probably did know where he was,’ she says finally, her voice much quieter. ‘I can’t imagine her never looking for him.’

That evening, while the news is still spilling out the same brief headlines, I finally pick up my iPad and scour the pictures that various websites are showing, poring over them in search of familiar faces.

I have always wondered what happened to the people I grew up around and who might still be on the island. Those who were once such a part of my life that I could never have imagined one without them. I zoom in close on a picture of a crowd near the police tent, studying their faces for a hint of recognition, but the more I enlarge the photo the more granulated it becomes. Despite this I trace my finger across the people until I stop. Standing a little further back, away from the huddle, is a woman I’m sure I recognise.

I click off the picture and open another and now I can clearly see it is Jill’s mother, Ruth Taylor. She is standing alone by the café in a photo the press have captioned ‘The local village’. I study her face, its roundness, her mouth skewed as she stares at something out of the shot. She looks older, of course, her hair now completely grey.

So, they never left the island. For many reasons I’d always hoped Jill had.

I sigh as I return to the first photo and lean back. Every one of these people will have to answer questions in the next few days, and I’m sure that if the police don’t already know who the body belongs to, they soon will.

No one is able to set foot on or off the island without everyone else knowing about it. No one could have been buried under its earth without at least one of its residents knowing who it is.

Chapter Four

I used to beg Mum to take me back to Evergreen. I’d done so ever since the night we left right up to just before Danny had packed his bags and a year after Dad had gone.

‘We could still go back,’ I suggested over breakfast. ‘Dad was the one who made us leave and he’s not here now.’ Whatever level of truth there was in the reasons they gave us, it was clear it had been his decision for us to get on that ferry.

‘I don’t think so, Stella,’ Mum said.

‘I don’t understand why not. We were happy, we—’