He wanted to come with me but he was too old and I couldn’t wait for him. I slithered down the ramp and hauled myself up the dripping bank of slate. There was no room for any doubts. That was Camilla’s towel. And next to it was a plastic bag containing her sun-glasses, her hair grips, her hand cream, and her copy of The Return of the Native.

A minute or two later, on Harry’s advice, I was hammering at the door of the harbour master’s cottage, breathing heavily, making promises I had no earthly chance of keeping, not just to God and to Camilla, but to my mother, to Harry Vilbert, even to Asimova.

I’m sure now that it wasn’t entirely his fault, but the harbour master took two lifetimes getting to grips with what I was trying to tell him. First of all he wanted to know how I could be certain that Camilla was in the water; then he failed to understand what reasons I had to be frightened for her if she was a strong swimmer and what was more was wearing flippers; it was only when he realized that Camilla had gone swimming the night before that I sensed him catch some of my consternation. But even then he wanted to cross-examine me on why it had taken me so long to report her missing. ‘That will take too long to explain,’ I explained to him.

He gave me one of those looks that I had all my life been dreading meeting from a doctor or a lawyer or a mechanic – the look that says, for all my professional expertise and wisdom, I don’t think there is anything I can do for you now. He shook his head. ‘If you’re telling me that she’s been in the water for upwards of ten hours …’ He shook his head again.