He set one of his researchers to contact all the town halls situated along the coast. He also asked his father-in-law, a policeman in the region, to check out any police databases that might contain records of Maurice’s death. At a conference on bereavement and offering support to parents who have lost children, one of his colleagues, based in Cherbourg, spoke about the letter in the bottle and appealed to the delegates for information on the letter-writer. Thus the information was passed on to similar associations in France, and the psychologist assured me that it would only be a matter of time before we received some concrete information about the identity of Maurice and his mother.

As yet, I have had no positive response from any of these encouraging attempts, although the psychologist/webmaster remains in contact, and sends me periodical updates on the lack of progress from his efforts.

Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had gripped me, eclipsing the sorrow that lay at the heart of my quest. I hadn’t even read the letter for a while and its raw emotions had faded into the background.

I was now hunting for a quarry.

When I spoke to friends and acquaintances about what I was doing, it turned out that many of them had found mysterious messages, poignant snapshots of other people’s lives. A painter acquaintance, for instance, had discovered a love poem tucked down the side panel of his second-hand Mercedes the week before. He had no idea whether it had ever been delivered but the message was permeated with despair at the fading beauty of the woman and the relationship. It was folded neatly and inserted so far down the side that it could not have got there by accident. Only a few days before, my brother had found a strangely analytical love letter written on the back of a pub menu in Salamanca:

• Do you know what you want from life?

• Do you know how to get it?

• Am I part of the life you want?

• Are you prepared to make an effort to be together?

• Do you think it’s worth the bother?

• The most important thing is that I love you, and I have already asked myself these questions and the answer is yes. But I can’t be half-and-half, Jorge, I have to give 100% or I can’t give at all.

So the desire to track objets trouvés back to their authors was not a private obsession. I discovered a website, www.foundmagazine.com, devoted solely to the scraps of paper, photos, even audio tapes that people had found floating around on the street, or in car parks, fragments of other people’s lives.

We collect love letters, birthday cards, kids’ homework, to-do lists, ticket stubs, poetry on napkins, doodles – anything that gives a glimpse into someone else’s life. Anything goes . . . we wanted to make a magazine so that everyone can check out all the strange, hilarious and heartbreaking things people have picked up.