‘And in answer to your question,’ I went on before she could continue, ‘I very rarely think about the island.’

This was, of course, a lie, and she knew it. I had become like Bonnie in the way she used to hide evidence of her drinking. My scrapbook was squeezed in between magazines; I had shoeboxes at the bottom of my wardrobe stuffed full of Mum’s old photos.

I had been fighting a yearning to return for years and I’d thought I’d overcome it. But ever since Friday night, I feel like I’m losing the fight. And since the visit from the police I no longer think I can stay away. I should be back there, helping to find out why someone buried a body on the edge of my old garden and what my bracelets have to do with it. I should be back among the people I used to love because I actually can’t bear the thought of not being with them. And I should be back because I want to know why we left when it was clear we would never be happier anywhere else.

My pulse flutters as I carefully compile a list of the girls who had one of my bracelets. When I’m done I look over the names before emailing them to the police. My eyes rest on the name at the top, and I know I’m not going to get any answers sitting in my flat.

Monday morning I try to focus my thoughts on a new family – a couple and their fourteen-year-old son who, in the mother’s words, has trouble committing to school.

She talks quickly, outlining her worries as if she’s ticking off a shopping list, and it’s clear how nervous she is. Every time she relays a situation she reminds me she doesn’t agree with her son’s behaviours. However, I don’t get the impression she wants to belittle him; rather, I think she needs me to know that she’s just a good mother, trying hard.

I feel for her. She comes across as guilty for letting it get to the point that her son’s hardly in school and they are all in therapy. I can imagine she feels the same way I did yesterday with the policemen in my living room.

I nod as I listen, every so often turning my attention to her husband and child. The boy fiddles with the balled-up coat in his lap and looks as if he wants to be anywhere but here. His face is blotchy with patches of red, and as his gestures become more frantic I can sense he’s had enough. As soon as his mum pauses for a breath, I ask him to tell me what a good day looks like to him.

He grunts and shrugs, but for the first time since he sat in my office he looks up and catches my eye.