He explained that this case was very different from his usual line of business. During our meeting a potential client telephoned about having his ex-girlfriend followed. Was she seeing someone else? the detective asked. Why had she ended the relationship? This was clearly a bread-and-butter case for him and he handled it with weary efficiency.

He read the letter slowly and thoroughly, querying the nuances in my translation throughout. As he revealed the discrepancies in my initial hasty effort, I resolved to call a literary French friend and check every syllable. He showed no visible emotional reaction and made no personal comments. The letter was like a crossword to be deciphered for clues; nothing further. In my initial reading, the only real clues had been the name of the child and his age. But the investigator chewed over other angles, as he digested his muesli. Breakfast ended with a handful of pills, all washed down by one efficient swallow of water. Maurice was the first son, he noted. Had he been lost in a storm? ‘S’est dérobé à la vie’ – ‘slipped away from life’ but literally ‘unclothed himself of life’. Had he let it slide from his shoulders like a bathrobe? Had he taken drugs? Had he committed suicide? Had he simply overestimated his swimming or sailing abilities? ‘Forgive me for being so angry at your disappearance’, literally ‘the anger that was your disappearance’. Had mother and son had a huge row, after which he had swum away to his death? Had his body been missing for a while? He had drifted ashore close to the rising sun, so to the east. Had I contacted the police in Kent, where the bottle had been found? Maybe an ESDA test would throw up some new information. He explained that this meant Electronic Static Detection Analysis and was a special technique that could throw very slight impressions on paper into legible relief. So if, by some miraculous chance, the mother had written her name and address on the page above, the faintest traces might come through the pad to the next page, and an ESDA test might reveal them.

The meeting produced many more questions, and no answers. It was clear that the detective was intrigued, but not so curious that he would offer to answer any of these questions himself pro bono. From the tone of his voice, he was not very hopeful of success. Rather than employ him, I decided to follow up his suggestions myself.

The policewoman to whom I spoke when I telephoned the Kent Constabulary was friendly and helpful. Without a name or a date, however, the information they could offer was limited. I was passed from station to station, retelling my tale each time to the duty officer who had been there for the longest period. They were unfailingly polite and curious, but no one could recall any bodies of thirteen-year-old boys washed up on their beaches. I soon began to fret at the amount of police time I was wasting.