‘Granddad’s here,’ said Lucy. ‘We went for a walk. Well, I rode. It was nice.’ A pause. ‘We saw some man you used to know. When he saw us he jumped down off the sea wall and walked along the beach, trying to avoid us. Granddad said he was an arsehole but he used to be your friend.’

Will. So he was still here.

Marnie was tired suddenly. She longed for a bath and bed. She made a fuss of Mister and let him out into the paddock.

The gulls called and she remembered how the birds used to stand on the caravans at Channel View, using them as lookouts. From inside, their big, webbed feet made it sound as if an army was trampling on the roof. There was one particular gull that always stood on Alice’s caravan, extending its throat, its long, sharp head, the beak open, screaming: Ach! Ach! Ach! The cry of the gulls had been part of the soundtrack to those burning hot days, one after the other; so hot that the air shimmered queasily and nothing was in focus and you could never be quite sure if you’d seen something or not. She recalled children from the holiday club running through the site on a treasure hunt, wearing their Severn Boar T-shirts, bright blue peaked caps keeping the sun off their faces, their voices high and screeching. Mr deVillars distributing raffle tickets amongst the holidaymakers for free entry into the Saturday evening draw at the clubhouse, first prize a family meal for four, drinks not included. Angharad with a tray of glasses in her arms and Marnie carrying the laundry basket, sequins on the scarlet dress folded on top reflecting pinpricks of red light.

Something else, in the haze: her father in his overalls, changing the gas tanks outside Caravan 79, which was the caravan in the same alignment, but the next row down to Alice’s. His outline coming into focus. Not changing the gas tanks after all; not doing anything, but standing there in his overalls, the top half down, the sleeves tied around his waist, and an old T-shirt, once white but now grey and torn, oil-spattered and dark with sweat under the arms. What was he doing?

It wasn’t the same day. Not the laundry day, not the day Alice went missing, but a different day that Marnie was remembering. She’d come to find Alice and her route was blocked by her father standing in the shade of Caravan 79, hidden from Alice’s view. Alice was outside her caravan, sitting at the table in the shade of the parasol, writing. The Quality Street tin was beside her, and the book about the history of the caravan park. She was oblivious to the man standing so still and quiet in the shade, watching her.