“I learned it as ‘The Song of the Seals.’ Here.” He took the violin and played the tune, slower this time.

“It’s different. The chorus is different.”

Sam said, “Yes, the man who taught it to me said it’s the actual tune the seals sing to each other.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

He laughed. “It’s only a story. Seals don’t sing.”

“Play that bit again. It’s beautiful.”

As he played, Leonie became still, and started to hum along. Ruby watched her, swaying slightly, for a moment transported.

“It’s a lament, I think,” said Sam, putting the violin away. “Kind of sad.”

“Not to me,” said Ruby. “I think it’s full of hope.”

Sam looked at Leonie, who had stopped singing and gone back to scribbling. “Musical bones, that one.”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “How could her mother just go off and leave her?”

“It was terrible, Sammy. But she must have been so desperate. I was late for the handover, and she went anyway. When I got there, the police had the kid.”

“The police? You were lucky to both get away then.”

“I know. It was close. But I wasn’t going to let the social worker take her. Her mother might have abandoned her, but I would never.”

“What did you do? How come they let you have her, when her mother had left her?”

“I told them I was Constance.”

Sam sat up straight then. There was the sound of Leonie dropping the pen on the floor. “Ups-a-daisy,” she said.

“The woman’s name is Constance? Not Constance Douglas?”

“How do you know? I mean, that’s the name I gave them, but how—”

“Have you heard the news the past two days?”

“No. Why?”

Sam was scrabbling for the radio, turning it on, looking for a news station. There was nothing but static and Christmas pop songs.

“Stupid bloody thing. Do you have your phone?”

“Yes, but I turned it off so I can’t be traced. You taught me that.”

“Turn it on.”

“Really? Here?” She looked at him, still unsure. He’d said so many times that he didn’t want the boat contaminated with mobile signals.

“Yes. Do it now. There’s something you have to see.” He said it with a grim determination, so she grabbed her bag and found the phone, pressed the button to start it up. Sam took a step backward, away from it, as if it might explode.

“What am I searching for?” she said.

“The name should do it. Constance Douglas.”

She typed it in. The first result was a national newspaper website headline, dated the twenty-second: