What I needed, more than anything to be sure as sure could be that my basic instinct had indeed been replaced with vanilla ice cream, was a sex offender. A paedophile. A rapist. And the more I walked, the more I thought.

Hmmm – to be a Good Girl doing Good Deeds or a Bad Girl doing what Bad Girls Do? Cue the distracted boyfriend meme.

The sight of an abandoned dinner tray on the floor outside one of the cabins served as the perfect opportunity to make my decision. There was a steak knife on the tray, greasy blade, flecks of meat between the teeth, partially hidden beneath a folded white napkin and a dying anniversary rose. Nobody else was around.

I knew beyond all doubt, once the knife was in my hot little hand, that this was my chance. Killing again, the way I liked to kill, would bring me back to life.

And I did what any wrong-minded cruise passenger whose ship has docked in the party capital of the Balearics would do: I went down to the Business Centre and googled ‘Sex Offenders on Mallorca.’

As it turned out, Mallorca was a veritable Deliveroo of sex offenders. I had opportunistic rapists near the Drach Caves, migrant wolf packs near Valdemossa, paedophiles at Porto Cristo, flashers on golf courses, a guy in a blue parka upskirting women on the promenade at Cala Pi, and a British teacher in Paseo Maratimo, charged with hiding cameras in a school toilet.

Only problem was – I didn’t know where any of these men were. If there was a paedophile trailer park, like there is in Florida, I’d have forged a plan – ventured down there at midnight with a full petrol can and a match – but I only had nine and a half hours before the ship set sail again – there was no time to stalk or strategise. I had to go on instinct.

One of the links took me to a recent Twitter thread where opportunity knocked a little louder. A woman called Tracey had gone to Playa des Carbo with her family and a homeless guy flashed his penis at her young daughter. The man had a warning from the beach patrol but he was back a day later, in the dunes ‘moaning and groaning obscenities’ within earshot of playing kids.

But even I knew that the odds of the same guy turning up in the dunes on the exact day I happened to be there waiting for him were not in my favour, especially out of season. And I didn’t fancy the long bus ride to the beach to waste my time. Instead, I went through the checkpoint gates and got a taxi into Palma, where I sat in an outdoor café near the beach and ordered several herbal teas and coma-inducing salads. I watched the passers-by, looking for a target to lock onto.