He gave up searching when he tripped over a tree root and ended up on his knees, swearing at the jarring, incandescent pain. It took him a few minutes to find his breath, and then to get back to his feet.

Emerging from the woods he found it had started to rain again. His body felt heavy, a weariness to which he was accustomed after long years of bad travel, jet lag, broken sleep, work. He wanted coffee but could not remember if he had brought any with him in his supplies. He set off back across the hill, his leg protesting fully, and it was then that he saw that the lighthouse was now lit from inside. Slivers of yellow had cut bright narrow rectangles in the walls of the tapering tower. Was the bookshop open? He went to find out.

The door opened again, creaking a little. Rachel expected it to be Ron and Bukowski, but instead a man she did not recognize appeared. He was tall but stooping his shoulders, as if aware his height might be intimidating. Perhaps it was because she had just been thinking of her artist friend, but to Rachel it seemed that his face had the look of one of Edie’s inked characters: all line, angle and shadow, as if he had been carved into the world with the elegant precision of a knife blade and an artistic eye. He was in his mid-forties, perhaps, because his dark hair was peppered with grey, but his jaw was still chiselled, his cheekbones still defined in his tanned face, as if his life was, and always had been, an active one. He tilted his head and gave a lopsided, enquiring smile that creased fine lines around his eyes. His hair and shoulders glinted with rain.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Are you open? I saw the lights through the windows, but I went out for an early walk without my watch. I’m not sure what the time is.’

Rachel glanced at the clock. ‘It’s almost nine,’ she said. ‘We don’t actually open until nine thirty, but it’s fine – come in.’

He smiled, and did. Over his shoulder he had a battered leather satchel that looked about as old as the laptop that Rachel was still trying to coax back into life. The legs of his trousers seemed to be wet, as if he’d been tramping through undergrowth. There was a smudge of mud on one knee that was more endearing than it had any right to be.

‘There’s fresh coffee,’ Cullen said, having leaned forward to peer at the newcomer around the high wings of his chair. ‘You’re welcome to a cup.’

‘Oh,’ said the stranger, with surprise. ‘That’s very kind of you, thank you. I’d love one.’

Cullen went to get up in order to pour the coffee himself, but Rachel waved him down and found another mug. The man came towards them, still smiling, and as he did she saw that he was limping, a small stuttering gait that dropped his left shoulder and snicked the satchel against his hip. Later she would remember that this had been her first impression of him: as the sturdy mast of a tall ship, its rigging snapping in the wind, its sail damaged but still crossing an unknown ocean with interest and hope.