He asks me to confirm who I lived with and where, and I tell him that along with Mum, Dad, Bonnie and Danny, I lived in the Quay House. My heart skips a beat at the thought he might have already spoken to Bonnie, but again I tell myself there’s nothing she can add. We’ll only be giving them the same information.

Regardless, having two policemen in my living room is making me on edge and I try relaxing my shoulders and loosening my jaw. Will the policemen be watching my mannerisms the same way I do my new clients, or are they purely interested in gathering facts and moving on?

‘Who were your closest neighbours?’ Walton asks.

‘We didn’t really have neighbours,’ I tell him, explaining how the Quay House sat at the end of the jetty away from any other houses. Killner turns over his sheet and looks at what appears to be a map of the island. I can’t help but strain to get a better look at it.

‘To the left you have the Pines pub?’ He peers up at me.

I nod. ‘That was where my friend Jill Taylor lived with her mum and dad. Ruth and Bob,’ I add when they look as if they are both waiting. ‘I don’t know if they’re still in the same house.’

Killner gives me a thin smile and I realise it doesn’t matter what I know because they already know more. ‘And on the other side is the village,’ he is saying. ‘Perhaps you could confirm who lived in the closest terraces to you?’

I think back to the rows of small houses that backed on to a cluster of shops. Calling it a village is an overstatement, but it was a central hub, a place where the adults caught up and bought essentials. ‘The doctor always lived in the end terrace nearest us,’ I say, ‘but there were a few different doctors in the years I lived there.’

He asks me to work backwards as best I can and I name the doctors I remember, though my time frames are vague. As Killner makes notes, I catch Walton looking at a photo on the shelf in the corner of the room. ‘That’s my mum. She died ten years ago in a car accident.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Harvey.’

I watch his eyes take in the many other photos that line the mantelpiece. All but one are pictures from years back. When we were young. When we lived on the island. Walton’s eyebrows furrow into the glimmer of a frown. What must he make of so many pictures taken so close to his crime scene adorning my shelves? I’m comforted he can’t see the rest of them hanging in my bedroom.