I hesitate, toying with the idea of making one up, but in the end I tell her the truth. ‘Stella. Stella Harvey.’

‘Stella Harvey,’ she repeats slowly, nodding as she bites her bottom lip. She glances back at the quay. ‘How long are you here for then, Stella? You know the passenger ferry doesn’t come back until tomorrow?’

‘I know. I’m staying at one of the beach houses,’ I tell her. ‘Just for a couple of nights.’

‘Well, it would be good to catch up with you, Stella Harvey,’ she says, but before she goes to leave, she pauses and adds, ‘I’ll probably see you around.’ And with a swing of her camera, she smiles and wanders off towards the white tent and the huddle of officers.

I decide to stop by Rachel’s house so I can drop off my bag, taking Pinecliff Walk to avoid the police tent.

It’s clear up close that the picket fence isn’t the one my dad put up. From a distance it looked the same but this one has clearly been installed by a professional, with its neat, straight lines and perfect points, and I have an overwhelming urge to kick it.

Up ahead, the new conservatory flashes brightly, its glass sparkling against the backdrop of blinds that have been pulled closed. I wish the new owners would let me see some part of the life they have inside, but it’s blocked from view and I have to make do with the outside.

Still I contemplate whether they’ve made the small kitchen any bigger, or if they’ve knocked down the partition Dad had put up to give Danny and me a bedroom each. It wouldn’t have taken them long to notice you could hear everything through the thin wall. I sigh deeply as I take one last glance before carrying along the path as it bends away.

Pinecliff Walk snakes along the coastline for a mile and a half until it reaches the furthest point of the island – Pirate’s Cove. Sometimes it meanders so close to the edge that there’s a clear view of the sea, but at others you’re too far away and have to imagine the water beyond the trees or at the bottom of cliffs. At these points other little tracks spider off it, some well-trodden routes and others more makeshift cut-throughs to the cliff and beaches below.

There was one path in particular we’d made ourselves that led to my secret place by the small clearing, and it’s at the tip of this that I pause. It’s funny that even after twenty-five years a wave of nausea washes over me as I glance to my left.