It wasn’t a glamorous scene. In fact, through a critical eye, it was a mess. This wasn’t the Hamptons. Nothing was groomed or manicured or clipped here – the very smartest properties were identified by a whimsical patterning of the whittled birch used for fencing – but that was the point. To know its scruffiness was to love it. The place had a rustic, low-key vibe that was the antithesis of slick city living, and the people coming out here, right on the farthest edge of the country’s landmass, weren’t just getting back to nature, they were getting back to themselves.

The first time she had come here had been like stepping back in time fifty years. No one locked their doors, children played without adults hovering over them, everyone cycled everywhere, fished for their dinner and cooked it . . . She loved that the ground was permanently carpeted with pine cones and needles, that the tree roots protruded like veins, the grass sprinkled with sand and vice versa on the beach. Everything felt like it was on the brink of going feral. Rewilded.

Even Kris and Marc – urban creatures who cared about ‘the right black’ and genuinely fretted over dado profilings – couldn’t resist its pull. When they had bought this place, with its bright-yellow clapboard and blue windows, they had sworn to paint it a matt blackish-green and open up the back with an all-glass wall. But two years later, the primary colours were still there, and even the previous owners’ geranium pots were still balancing on the deck’s handrail – because when they came out here, all they wanted was to stop and relax.

Bell had found the key in its usual place: in the faded red Croc beside the ash bucket, which the previous owners had also left. She knew her friends were coming out tonight. It was Midsommar tomorrow, which meant no one was going to be sleeping this weekend; the longest day of the year – or shortest night, depending on your proclivities – always heralded party time. But they wouldn’t be out till tonight at the earliest, possibly even tomorrow morning depending on Marc’s hospital shifts, giving her at least a day on her own, and she was grateful for that. She had come over early on the kayak, unable to sleep in spite of her exhaustion, the evening’s events nagging in her mind all night.

She still couldn’t believe what had gone down – Hanna leaving her children alone in their beds, unattended. It was so reckless, so completely unlike her. Had she thought it was okay because Linus was ten and therefore ‘old enough’? Or had she thought it was okay because Bell was just through the trees – even though Hanna knew she had plans?

It made no sense. She was a good mother. Yes, she’d been strained lately – she’d lost weight, her face was often pinched and several times, Bell had overheard her and Max exchanging sharp words behind closed doors. She thought she could probably guess as to the source of their stresses; though the ex-husband hadn’t materialized, as poor Max had feared, into their lives, he must still be a background figure. The guy was Linus’s biological father, after all, and there would likely be paternal rights issues to co-ordinate. But not yet, clearly. Hanna hadn’t mentioned him once since their return from Uppsala, and she (and Linus) had all but put the day out of their minds. But to do something so wilfully dangerous as to leave the children alone on an island . . . whatever issues Hanna and Max might be facing right now, it was no excuse. What if Tilde had woken up needing the loo, or Elise had wanted water, or Linus had had a nightmare? There were so many ways this could have been a disaster.