I’m the owner of the hotel, and am pleased to say the sculpture now stands proudly in reception.

I would very much like to meet you, and have attached details of a double room pre-booked and paid for in your name for next weekend – please do come if you can.

Best wishes, Cameron Patterson.

P.S. There are photos of Flynn Hotel on my Instagram account if you would like to have a look – along with a picture of my new acquisition – your wonderful piece.

She clicks onto his Instagram account, where there are reams of photos of Flynn Hotel. The Gothic building stands on a cliff edge, with a steep, high roof rising to a point, and arched windows. Grooved vaulting, flying buttresses, and a large statue of a dog make the red-brick building unique. This is exactly what Alice created, what the place looked like in the black and white photograph she received – what the place looked like in her dreams.

The latest picture on Cameron’s feed is of her sculpture standing on a black-wood dresser. She hovers her finger over the like button for a moment, before clicking it.

She closes Instagram, and opens the hotel’s website where a photo of Cameron Patterson smiles out from the screen. He’s around thirty, with strawberry-blond hair, and a confident glow. There’s a quote in Gothic font saying ‘A hotel experience you’ll never forget.’ Another click takes her to a photo gallery, with amazing pictures of each room – some she’s already seen on Cameron’s Instagram profile. There’s a promise of isolation and authentic Gothic surroundings – the causeway to the mainland only available for four hours a day. The hotel is on Seafield Island in Dunwold, Suffolk, along the coast between Southwold and Lowestoft. Dunwold? The restaurant receipt she found in the tobacco tin was from Dunwold.

Alice goes on a clicking frenzy. A lover of Gothic, she gets this place; can see why people would go there – especially at Halloween – but at the same time it’s unnerving how familiar the outside of the building is. She wonders if she’s seen the hotel on TV, perhaps advertised on a holiday programme, or even used as a film location. Then why had someone sent her the photo of the place? Why had her father hated her sculpture so much? Why does she feel she’s been there before?

‘Morning.’

She turns to see Leon in his boxers and a crumpled white T-shirt, running a hand across his stubbled chin, his fair hair pillow-tousled. She observes the taut muscles in his arms, before turning away. ‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

Henry bounds in through the back door, and greets Leon like a long-lost friend. ‘Hello there, boy,’ he says, ruffling the dog’s ears. He approaches the breakfast bar, and Henry follows, nails tip-tapping the quarry tiles.

‘Weird place,’ he says looking over her shoulder at the laptop screen.