‘I thought this wasn’t a holiday,’ said Philip. ‘What was it you said? “A holiday implies relaxation and fun and time to gather one’s thoughts away from the demands of daily life. This trip will provide none of those things”.’ He quoted her primly, like the art curator he had once been.

She turned on him, her blue eyes flashing with anger. Forty-nine years ago those eyes had stopped Philip’s seventeen-year-old self in his tracks outside a Soho coffee shop: Patricia was sitting with her friends, had looked up as he’d passed and smiled, and that was it, he was smitten. Age might’ve dulled their colour, but his wife’s eyes could still pin him to the spot all these years later.

Their daughter’s had been the exact same shade.

‘You’re twisting my words. I know we’re not off on our jollies, but you could at least act as though what we’re doing out there isn’t the worst thing imaginable.’

But in his mind it was.

On the back of the bedroom door, snuggled together on the same hanger for convenience, was a knee-length black dress Patricia had purchased especially for the trip and Philip’s most formal suit, dusted free of mothballs. Binding them together at the neck of the hook was a loosely knotted black tie. These clothes would go in last, carefully laid out over the shorts and the flip-flops and the bottles of sun cream Patricia had bought in bulk from Boots. They were to be worn only once – as they honoured their daughter’s memory at the place where her remains were recovered.

‘This week is about reminding people that Katy’s killer is still at large,’ said Patricia.

Philip was suddenly assailed by a memory of the four of them sitting at a table in that lovely Italian restaurant on the Pine Walk, faces tinged pink from too much sun. It was their first evening in Puerto Pollensa and Katy’s fiancé Declan had treated them to champagne and they’d laughed and chatted and marvelled at the view across the bay as the sun languidly melted below the horizon and stars as ripe as diamonds filled the sky.

It had been the most idyllic holiday destination, until it wasn’t.

‘I – I don’t think I can go,’ he stuttered.

Patricia looked across at him, and for a fleeting moment he saw in her expression the sorrow she’d held at bay for the past fifteen years by focusing every ounce of her energy on finding whoever had murdered their daughter. The campaign had distracted her from her grief and given her purpose, but privately Philip wished she would, just occasionally, give in to tears and, in doing so, let him comfort her. Then perhaps she might do the same to him.

His wife gathered herself, pushing her desolation back down from wherever it had sprung.