Mohktar was on the phone and Jack came over and put his arm around me. ‘He’s trying to find private accommodation for us, where we won’t be bothered by any press or interested voyeurs. It would be better than a hotel, wouldn’t it?’

‘Oh, God, yes. Don’t you think so, Mum?’

‘Yes, I do. How kind of him.’

Mohktar put down the phone and beamed at us. ‘We go now to look at this bungalow I have found for you. It belongs to my mother’s aunt. She normally rents it to visitors but she had cancellation. It is not so very modern, but comfortable I think. Come, I take you, and if you are not happy we think again.’

‘I am sure it’ll be wonderful,’ Fleur said, almost in her old voice.

She got into Mohktar’s car and Jack and I followed in the hire car. We drove out of Port Dickson and stopped at Fleur’s hotel, collected her few things and paid the bill. We drove for a few miles before turning off on the coast road towards Cape Rachado and the lighthouse. I tried to remember. I tried to remember us all purring down here in Dad’s car, but I couldn’t recognise anything at all. That time had long gone, it lived on only in my head.

We bumped down a track that ended in a small car park. ‘We cannot get any nearer, I am afraid. I think we leave your luggage in the car until you have seen. It is important it is all right for you. That you can feel relaxed while you wait for events to unfold.’

We walked across the sand to two wooden bungalows set above the beach a little way apart, much like the rest houses used to be. James Mohktar confirmed that the rest houses had lain in the curve of this beach. To the middle and further end lay the new – to us – hotels and self-catering accommodation.

We walked up wooden steps to a veranda. The shutters were thrown open and the windows had mosquito screens fitted. Memory stirred, and with it a little thrill of remembered childhood, the excitement, the possibilities of a holiday exploring. I glanced at Fleur and she smiled and moved with me through the door.

We both stopped dead. It was full of old army-issue rattan furniture and faded chintz covers. Orchids stood in a vase on the table and a small woman in a faded coloured sam foo stood nodding and bowing to us in the corner.

Mohktar talked to her in rapid Malay. I heard Fleur say under her breath, ‘Oh, God, it’s like coming home.’

Mohktar said, ‘This is Ah Lin. She will look after you and cook if you like to stay.’

‘It is perfect, DS Mohktar,’ Fleur said. ‘Isn’t it, Nikki?’ She smiled at him. ‘I think you knew it would be.’

Mohktar said gently, ‘It was how the rest houses were, I think. My aunt bought these two bungalows long ago, before the tourists came. My uncle worked with army supplies, as you see, and bought up surplus when the British moved out. I was only afraid it would remind you too much…of those last days here, Mrs Campbell.’