The judge was a tall woman, with – indeed – one of those outrageously coloured, cropped, tousled, product-heavy heads of hair that women in public life sometimes assume in middle age. Not red exactly but magenta crossed with poppy interbred with letter-box maternal ancestry and a grandfather who was once a cherry. During the course of the inquiry, people grew to love – not just her flamboyant red hair – but also her deep, growly voice with its faint accent of an upbringing in a place far away. She expressed sense; vocalised calm; was the solid thrum of the double bass, toiling away amidst the hectic street traffic that is the rest of the orchestra. She commanded attention amidst the all-male clamour. But more and more often, as the inquiry went on, she was forced to ask for quiet, to demand in particular that the public respect the safety of her witnesses, some of whom had come from outside the islands to talk about their connection to Eva’s work, and all of whom were speaking in public at great personal expense. It isn’t nice to be made to stand up and position yourself publicly on an issue which probably goes to the heart of your private self as a woman, or a man, the judge said; I wouldn’t like it either.

After she had listened to everything that anybody wanted to say, she went on, she would return home, to write her report, which she would deliver in a few months’ time. In the meantime, thank you for your time and attention, and in particular for your respect of other people’s points of view, many of which are bound to differ from those you yourself hold dear. You may well find discussion of such views upsetting. Please be prepared for a fairly sustained level of public trauma during the course of this inquiry.

And then she began questioning her witnesses, one by one.

The inquiry itself heralded the first outbreak of violence. The protests began the day it officially opened but nobody looked upon them as anything serious: grumpy men, out there on the streets, disgruntled, mildly surprised, taken-aback men.

It was Inga’s evidence, two weeks later, which brought out the gropers and the vandals: the public face of the digital outrage that had flowed back and forth across the water, between the mainland and the islands, ever since Eva’s disappearance. Of course, by then the women were used to a few island-born or -resident men protesting outside the library – staff from the high school, some schoolboys, friends of Colin Grieves. They shouted things; held up banners. Occasionally there was a bit of jostling; but nothing overly concerning. It was laughable.

Things got worse when the outsiders arrived. The ferrylubbers. Those from over the water. They were the ones who came over on the boat for a bit of a jolly – and then, when they got there, went on the rampage.