I tried to ignore it. Was it Frejah Harsent? But she was half a world away. If it was her, how did she get her car across from Dearth? She could only have come by ship. Cars like hers were not a common sight on Raba outside the Ocean Domaisne, but because of the beach and the relative proximity of the wealthy quarter we did sometimes see over-powered roadsters similar to hers in our part of the island.

I was sitting on the patio outside my office, skimming slowly through a new book which I had received from an online bookseller that morning. It was an illustrated dictionary of the pathological terms applied to forensic procedures carried out on a body when the cause of death had to be scientifically established. It made for gruesome but fascinating reading. The publishers clearly intended the book for a general readership as well as a specialist one. Coloured photographs were included of many procedures in progress: close ups of bullet and knife wounds, arteries torn apart, crushed and broken bones.

To respect sensibilities, each set of illustrations was screened off by a covering page, which carried a warning as well as captions describing each picture concealed behind. This page had to be turned before the photographs became visible, which made seeing the illustrations optional, but at the same time introduced an unmistakable feeling of curiosity. Early on I succumbed to temptation, but after that I opted to leave curiosity unsatisfied. The captions alone were enough to make the stomach churn.

I would never have use for this degree of detail, now or in any future novel, but I saw it as interesting background intelligence. When writing about technical details I always wanted to be in possession of more information than I actually needed.

The car’s engine continued to rumble in the sea road at the end of my garden. The familiarity of the sound made me want to retreat into the house, stay out of sight. A certainty was growing in me that it was not a casual visitor, someone who happened to have pulled up and was still waiting on the side of the road. I was sure it was Frejah. I had not been able to take in a single word of the new book from the moment I became aware of the car. I kept waiting for the driver to switch off the engine or drive away, or at least do something other than sit there with the engine running. The constant note was more distracting than a series of louder noises – it was like an unfinished sentence, music without a climactic tonic chord.

I put down the book. I had quickly become tense, curious, nervy. I crossed the garden, the comfort of our private space, then walked along the rough path Jo and I had made to the short flight of steps that led down to the road.