There were also hundreds of miles of lanes and roads, with stunning coastal views around almost every corner. Its only town, St Helier, which she was now heading towards, with its port, network of pedestrianized streets and vast array of shops and stores, felt substantial, almost a bonsai version of an English city.

The one oddity was St Helier’s principal landmark, an incinerator chimney, and she always wondered why, with its inhabitants so keen on preserving the island’s natural beauty, nothing had ever been done to somehow mask it. But it hadn’t spoiled her love of the place. And the one thing she loved more than anything was how safe she felt. The crime levels were so low that she felt completely secure running here, even at night, and she never bothered to lock her car.

As she ran on towards the Esplanade, where many of the banks were sited, passing a closed ice-cream kiosk, shading her eyes against the low winter sun, she didn’t notice the Porsche which had now made a U-turn and was cruising back past her. Slowly. But not so slow that it was obvious.

6

Friday 7 December

Inside his car, Marcus was unsettled. And hard.

Lynette?

The slender woman on his left in the pink top, bright-blue shorts and compression socks, who he’d almost run over, was now heading in the opposite direction, grim determination on her face.

As he drove, he discreetly held up his phone and took a photograph of her. Then he did a quick mental calculation, wondering how Lynette would really look today – assuming she was still alive? Was she still beautiful like this running lady? Or was the Lynette of his dreams now fat, tattooed and living miserably with her bolshy biker husband? Her likeness was uncanny, although he knew that in reality it almost certainly wasn’t her.

And yet?

The clock in the round white dial above the dash said 8.42. It was running sixteen seconds fast against the dial of his wristwatch and the imprecision angered him. The watch that received, each night, a radio signal from the US atomic clock in Colorado. It was accurate, every day, to within nanoseconds.

He was really late now, but at this moment did not care. He turned round at the first opportunity, catching one more glimpse of her from the other side of the dual carriageway, then drove on. He wanted to see her again. With a small population of around 107,000 on this island, you were constantly bumping into people you knew, or at least recognized. For sure, he would see her again.

Finally, he pulled into an underground parking space at the rear of the tired old granite buildings of Jersey General Hospital and hurried from his car. Still thinking about the woman.

Running.