‘So what do you want to do most, now that we’re here?’ she asked, looking back at Linus, seeing how he stared and stared at the ceiling. ‘We could go on an afternoon paddle, round to Blind Man’s Bay?’

‘Maybe.’

‘We could put out the nets and see what we can catch for supper?’

‘I want pasta.’

‘Okay. Well, how about we just go on an exploring walk and see if anything’s changed?’

‘Like what? Nothing changes here.’

‘Linus, what a thing to say,’ she gasped in mock horror. ‘Everything changes here. Summer Isle is the very crucible of change.’

‘The very what?’

She smiled, knowing the unfamiliar English word would pique his interest. ‘You never know, the Big Ash might have fallen in a storm. Or old Persson’s shack might have been blown away, and he’s now living under a palm leaf that blew in from the East Indies.’

Linus cracked a tiny smile at that. ‘Or he might have died seven months ago and his body’s lying undiscovered on the floor.’

Bell gave a grimace. ‘Eww, I hope not!’ She winked. ‘But we should probably check. Stealth mission?’

‘What’s our cover story?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Collecting kindling.’

He gave a smile, but then it faded. ‘No. I don’t want to.’

‘Oh Linus! Why not?’

He shot her a look. ‘Because I’m ten now, and that’s babyish.’

She gave a frustrated sigh, giving up. ‘Right, fine – well, if you’re too old to play, you can help me do some chores. Come on; I need to get the rest of the stuff from the boat. Then we’ll kayak back to Sandhamn. We forgot milk. You can take your skateboard and have a run on the roads out there.’

‘But it’ll take twenty minutes each way to get over there.’

‘Yeah. What’s your point?’

‘That’ll take ages.’

‘Precisely,’ she said briskly, patting his knee and getting up. ‘What else are we gonna do? We’re on island time now, champ.’

Her cabin was exactly as she had left it: narrow pine bed dressed with fluffy duvet and a jumbo-stitched knitted blanket; a trendy charcoal-grey knotted wool rug over the floorboards; a replica Egg chair in the near corner; on the wall a black-and-white print of pine trees silhouetted by a frozen lake; books in English and Swedish – mainly thrillers – laid along the window edges, sagging slightly from the condensation build-up; the kitchen units – sink, fridge – hidden from sight, set inside what looked like a wall of cupboards along the far gable end.

Bell set down her bag and went straight to the fridge. With a moan of relief, she saw that the bottle of vodka she had left last summer was still in the shallow freezer compartment. A can of Coke was in the fridge door, and within seconds, she had poured herself a chilled reward for the day’s labours.

She walked back out onto the deck and sank into the low timber Adirondack chair, tucking her feet in close to her bottom and letting her chin rest on her knees as she gazed out to sea. They were just at the end point of the island, where the rocks swooped back on themselves in an irregular ellipse, and she had a partial view east, back towards the lagoon and the island opposite, which was maybe two hundred metres away. It was the one Linus had called 007, in the hope that a rich villain lived there. Everyone knew the owners were rich. But villains, too? Linus hoped so. It was the largest island in their little constellation, and deeply wooded. Unlike many of the other skerries and isles here, it was privately owned, and even though Swedish law took a relaxed view of ownership and trespass law – stating that anyone could camp anywhere for a period of up to twenty-four hours – no one ever did seem to dock or land there. The jetty was always noticeably bare, pointing into the water like a threatening finger, a warning to stay back.