It’s the walk that’s familiar: a man with a broad chest and a spring in his step, surrounded by a group of other young people. Joe? Could it be Joe? I can’t see his face, but as he moves away, I catch sight of the man’s dark, curly hair. I thought Joe left early this morning. Had he stayed on?

‘Joe!’ I yell and wave my arms. ‘Joe!’

The man turns towards me, as if he’s responding to his name being called, but I can’t tell – he might be too far away to hear me. I jump down, and now I can’t see him at all. I haven’t seen Bethany, either, although I suppose it’s not surprising as there are so many people here. I’m about to push through the crowds to see if it really is Joe, when I notice two policemen heading towards me.

They halt, now that I’m no longer a public liability, standing on top of a national monument, and they’re losing interest already, but I elbow my way through the Italians and I seize one of them by the arm.

‘Please,’ I say. ‘Prego. We’ve lost someone.’ I feel a bit ridiculous. After all, Bethany’s only been gone for an afternoon and an evening. I have no proof that she’s missing, other than her phone, left behind on her bed, and the fact that I can’t imagine Bee missing the whole of Ruby-May’s anniversary, no matter how cross she was with me.

The older one shrugs, as if to say, Haven’t we all? The other, the younger one whose sleeve I grabbed, puts his head on one side.

‘It’s my sister,’ I say.

‘From here?’ He gestures to the square with his chin. ‘How old?’

‘Thirty-four,’ I tell him and the urgency fades from his expression. ‘I don’t know if she came here. She left our holiday house by il cavalluccio marino sometime this afternoon. We haven’t seen her since.’

He taps his ear. ‘Is loud. We go.’ I follow him out of the square and under the lee of the fortress wall. It’s only marginally quieter. The older police officer stands a couple of feet away, as if to distance himself, and watches the revellers making their way up to the piazza.

‘I am Agente Marco Martelli. My colleague is Agente Alessandro Pianozzi. Tell me what happen. Why you worry about her?’ Martelli takes out a notepad and a pen. He’s young – younger than me – with grey eyes, dark hair and a thick, bristly moustache. He nods as if he knows the place, when I say we’re staying at Maregiglio.