‘Where were you just now?’ she said, realising that he had been in the house, but she hadn’t seen him. How did he get inside when she had locked the doors earlier? To get from the dining room to the garden she had passed every room on the ground floor and he hadn’t been in any of them. The frown disappeared from his face and his eyes turned kind, but she didn’t believe them.

‘I was looking for you,’ he said, but she knew he was lying; he was somewhere else in the house. What was he doing?

Pushing past him, she went back into the house, closing the French doors behind her. What was in the guest house that he was so worried about her seeing? She had seen the look on his face when he thought she had gone inside. Maybe the key to whatever game he was playing was in there.

When looking through the photo album for Belize, Jasmine was hit by how pretty it was. They had visited the island of San Pedro, which was so colourful and the people were so friendly, it had been the inspiration for La Isla Bonita, the Madonna song. Jasmine had been eleven and they had refurbished a medical centre, although in reality she did very little besides play football in the street with the kids of the neighbourhood. It was one of her fonder memories of travelling abroad. When she got to the final Belize album, she opened the sleeve and found a piece of fabric pressed between the pages, a bright blue piece of torn silk. Jasmine had no idea where it was from but it had been ironed flat from being squashed among the pages of the album for so long. She turned the pages and remembered Ladyville, where they had helped to paint a community centre where people could bring their children. Jasmine’s mother was very artistic, and she had painted a brilliant mural of cartoon characters on the walls. When the work was finally completed there was a party to celebrate and officially open the place. The local press had been there, and her parents had posed front and centre for photos with their colleagues.

The next photo was of Jasmine and her mother. Lisa’s face bore a glowing smile as she looked past the camera to the person taking the photo. Jasmine could tell by the look on her mother’s face that it was Frank. She completely adored him. Then something in the background caught Jasmine’s eye and she dropped the photo.

It couldn’t be.

Overcome with a wave of nausea, Jasmine stared at the back of the picture that had landed face down, scared to pick it up and turn it over. But she did. And there, standing less than twenty feet behind her and her mother, at the makeshift bar, was a man staring straight into the camera with piercing blue eyes.