I drive on into town. There’s not a lot in Ashford now, away from the harbor. I get why the tourists don’t bother coming here anymore. What few independent shops there were when I was growing up have been replaced by chains and brands. The hippie shop where I got my nose pierced when I was fifteen is now a mobile phone shop; the Corner Café where I once took Grace for hot chocolate while Meg did some quick shopping is a Starbucks. Even the sea around Ashford feels industrial, as flat and gray as a parking lot. I park behind the pub. The Ship is blessedly anonymous, one of those pubs people generally only come to once. It’s still before opening time and Brian, the owner, who looks like a potato with his round cheeks and prematurely hairless head, opens his arms to me as soon as I walk through the door. He wipes his doughy hands on the cloth over his shoulder, tilts his head, and hugs me. It seems like people are always tilting and hugging when they see me now.

“Don’t forget what I said on the phone: you just leave any time you need to, OK, Car?” he makes a point of saying before going back to polishing the beer taps.

The decor in here hasn’t changed in decades, the fake fishing nets hang from the ceiling like great spider webs and the floor is tacky under my sneakers, but it’s a relief to be somewhere without any memories of Grace—Meg would never let her go anywhere so mucky. I fill a bucket with soapy water and carry it out to the front, the harbor side of the pub. The first job, as always on an early shift, is to scrub off the white bombs of seagull shit that have exploded on the outside tables. Far above, the gulls glide smugly. I remember Grace pointing out how their scratchy cawing sounded like they were screaming my name: “Car, Car!” I dunk a brush into the warm water and, with my head down, start scrubbing the wooden tabletop.

“You’ve got an audience.” I look up and see a man in his mid-forties opposite me, with a brown beard, glasses, and a geeky-looking anorak. It takes me a moment to place him as the journalist the police brought up yesterday, Jon Katrin. He nods to a spot just a couple of feet away, where a huge seagull flaps from the pavement onto the table and, standing on its drinking-straw legs, fixes a blank, disapproving eye on me. I clap my hands at it, try to shoo it away, but it only flaps its wings a couple of times. Clearly I’m not nearly scary enough to make it budge.

“Stubborn bugger,” Jon says, before lifting his arms like he’s about to take off himself and shouting Coooorrr at the bird. The bird cocks its head and looks mildly amused before flapping its wings and hopping lazily down from the table.