He’s wrong, anyway, about those shoes. When Atticus appears on the Beacon one cold Tuesday evening, he’s not wearing his loafers. He’s wearing some battered old New Balances and strides up to Dan with a casualness that suggests it’s perfectly normal for him to be there.

Dan fights a childish urge to put Fitz on his lead and run away. Instead he waits and watches the details of Atticus as he approaches, hair blown about by the wind, lapel of his tartan shirt flapping. Hands in pockets. That smirk. ‘Lovely evening for it,’ Atticus says, stopping so close that his trainers almost bump against Dan’s Nikes.

Dan wonders if that’s all he’s going to say. Is he really going to pretend that appearing here, on Dan’s Beacon, in Dan’s village, is normal? Dan glances round for Luke, then remembers he has football training. ‘It’s amazing up here,’ Atticus says, ‘so quiet I can’t even hear myself. Christ, how long has it been since I looked at this view?’

Dan doesn’t know so he can’t answer. Instead he takes in Atticus as Atticus tips his head back, then breathes in and out as if he’s just learned how. Below, to the left of them, is the marina, white-tipped waves licking at the walls, and further still, gaudy lights from the pier winking in neon colours. To the right, seven miles of sea and then the wind farm. A row of red lights that flash at Dan in warning.

‘What are you doing here, Atticus?’ Dan says quietly, but there is no surprise in his voice, and he realizes he knew this was coming, was waiting for it, has been holding his breath all these years.

‘I thought I’d take an evening stroll.’ Atticus shrugs. Dan sighs and practises the art of silence. Seconds pass. Seventy-five of them. And finally, irritated that Dan won’t play his game, Atticus says, ‘I saw the photo of you and him,’ he points at Fitz, ‘on your desk. The windmill was behind you. I did some research. Incidentally, they use it for art exhibitions. I might rent it out.’

Dan refuses to be moved off topic. ‘You can’t be here. You can’t do this.’ He wishes he sounded more forceful.

‘Do what?’ Atticus says. A smirk reappears. ‘What am I doing that’s so wrong? I didn’t bring any coffee with me or anything.’

‘You can’t follow me. Research me.’

‘You left the photo out.’

‘Not as a clue!’

‘It felt like a clue to me.’

‘It’s just a photo!’ Dan protests, though he sees now that it wasn’t just a photo, and when he looks back on it all, he’ll wonder how something so colossal could have started with something so small and insignificant.

‘What’s your dog called?’

‘No.’

‘No? Funny name for a dog. Rather negative. Hello, No.’