Back in the village I go into the café where a blast of warm air hits me as soon as I open the door. A young girl at the counter smiles at me. She looks no more than fifteen, with her dark blonde hair tied into a ponytail, and a bright pink apron that she wipes her hands across. ‘How can I help you?’ she asks.

‘Hot chocolate, please, and something to eat.’ I glance at the blackboard behind her, settling for a chicken mayonnaise sandwich.

‘Find yourself a seat and I’ll bring it over,’ she says, gesturing to all the empty tables. The only other customers are two young girls on bar stools by the window, their backs to the room as they giggle over something.

I pick a table at the edge of the room. ‘It’s quiet,’ I say, looking over my shoulder as the girl piles a large spoonful of filling on to a slice of bread.

She nods. ‘It is. Are you here because of the body too?’

Her directness shocks me and I glance at the girls who have stopped laughing but are still deep in conversation.

‘I’m guessing you must be either police or press because that’s all we’ve had since Saturday.’

‘I’m neither,’ I tell her.

‘Oh?’ She comes around the counter with my sandwich, setting it on the table and lingering. ‘What are you doing here, then?’

‘Actually I used to live here. A very long time ago.’

‘Oh, cool. Maybe you knew my mum?’

I cock my head to one side questioningly.

‘Emma Fisher? She’s lived here all her life. She was Emma Grey then.’

‘Yes, I knew Emma.’ She was three years older than me, the same age as Danny.

‘We live over in the terraces,’ she says. ‘Number two, you should go and see her.’

‘Oh, well …’ I stammer, trying to recall what more I can of Emma other than the fact her name was on my list.

She was quiet. Her parents kept to themselves. I never really knew what to say to her. ‘She lived in the village when we were young, too,’ I say, details coming back to me – Emma had long blonde hair sliced neatly across her back in a sharp cut.

‘My grandparents are still there. Number eight. The same house they’ve always been in.’

‘So your mum never left the island?’

‘No. She met my dad and he moved here for a few years, but they split up when I was five and he went back to the mainland. It’s just been me and Mum ever since.’ The girl smiles and goes back around the counter to finish making my hot chocolate.

‘And what about you?’ I ask, when she comes back. ‘Do you like living here?’

‘You sound like the journalists.’

‘I’m sorry.’