‘I am?’ Silva turned to look at the house. ‘You’ve hardly been in touch in the past few years and now you want to play happy families? I don’t think so.’

‘This isn’t about me, this is about you.’

‘I’m fine. I’m OK with where I live, OK with my job. I know you don’t think being a postie is any kind of living, but it’s risk free.’

‘You were never one to be scared. You got a commendation for bravery on your first tour.’

‘I’m not talking about what’s out there.’ Silva swept her arm and turned back to her father. She tapped her forehead. ‘I’m talking about what’s up here.’

‘It was an accident. They tend to happen in war. Nobody was to blame.’

‘Funny how you didn’t come to my defence at the time. “No comment” was all they could get out of you.’

‘I couldn’t be seen to question the chain of command, but now I’m retired from the Ministry I can speak the truth. You weren’t at fault.’

‘What is this, “kiss and make up” time? Has Mum’s death brought about a new sense of your own mortality? All of a sudden you feel responsible for your little baby?’

‘Nothing like that.’ Her father lowered his shoulders and shook his head.

Silva turned back to the lake. A rowing boat slipped into view from behind the island. A man sat in the boat, pulling slowly for a small jetty next to the boathouse. The boat slid across the lake and came alongside the jetty and the man climbed out. He was a similar age to her father, perhaps mid-sixties, with short grey hair. He wore a light-coloured suit at least one size too big. A floppy green hat which had seen better days sat on his head. He bent and lifted a fishing rod and a creel from the boat and walked across the lawn towards them.

He came up the steps to the terrace with a smile on his face. He dropped the fishing gear, removed the floppy hat, and made a small bow. The hat was adorned with a number of colourful feathers. Fishing flies.

‘Matthew Fairchild,’ he said, pulling a business card from a pocket and pressing it into her hand. ‘I am so pleased to meet you, Ms da Silva.’

‘You can call her Rebecca or Becky,’ her father said. ‘Plain Difficult once you’ve known her a while.’ He reached for the jug and began to pour the lemonade. ‘Any luck out there?’

‘Oh yes, a nice brace.’ Fairchild sat on a spare chair and bent and lifted the flap on the fishing creel. Two large rainbow trout lay inside. ‘Do you fish, Rebecca?’

‘No,’ Silva said.