Jo had never owned a proper camera. She tried to remember when the last time was that she actually got any of the many snaps she took on her phone developed. It was years ago. For a generation that photographed everything, including their breakfast, lunch and dinner, there would be little physical evidence of it in the future. That suddenly felt very sad to her. She thought of all the photos hanging on the walls of her parents’ home. Jo with her brothers, with Noah, with all the various children who had come in and out of their lives over the years.

And those photos were only the smallest percentage of what existed. There was a big box in the attic filled with photo albums and envelopes filled with pictures. Images from every notable event, and plenty of ordinary days, in the history of the Campbell family.

It struck Jo that while she had countless pictures of Clara on her phone – pictures she had shared on Facebook and Instagram, she had only one physical image of her, framed on her bedside table. She vowed that when she went home she would rectify that. Even if it only meant printing out all the photos on her phone.

‘It’s the weight of the camera in your hand that I love,’ Ewan expounded. ‘That, and using film, not just your memory card. It makes you think about things differently. It gives some importance to what you’re doing. You have to really think about what way you want it to look. You don’t have an infinite number of chances.’

She nodded at him and laughed. ‘I think I’ll stick with my phone and multiple retakes. Not to mention filters. Instagram is a kind mistress at times.’ But her laugh was a nervous one. Once again Ewan was managing to unsettle her. Everything he said seemed to speak to her, it pulled her closer to her dream and reminded her that as with camera film, life did not have limitless chances for a redo.

‘I’m not against Instagram, but there’s no comparison, Jo. There’s no better filter than nature itself. Here, come and look.’

She felt her nerve ends tingle as she moved closer to him. It felt as if she was slipping further out of her comfort zone – a feeling that only grew as she got nearer to him.

‘The book I’m writing,’ Ewan said, as he passed her the camera and she felt the warmth of his hands envelop hers. ‘The protagonist is a photographer.’

She didn’t want to feel the weight of his camera, scared that she might drop it, or push the wrong button and over-expose his film, ruining all his shots, but she could hardly push it away.

‘McCreadie?’ Jo asked, her nerves a little rattled. She didn’t remember photography as being one of the TV inspector’s hobbies.