When I try to weasel away, Peyton predictably asks too many questions – where, how long, if I want her to come. She has told me more about herself – she’s studying social work; she’s ‘casually’ seeing that kid from earlier, Liam. (I’d asked, in that case, why they didn’t just share a room together, and she’d said, ‘God, I’m seeing him – that doesn’t mean I like him.’)

Despite her overinterest, I decide that as far as obligatory room-mates go, she’ll be tolerable.

According to the address online, the station is near to where I first docked yesterday, which means it’s an easy dash down Sycamore and a left on Reimer, I remember without needing to confirm. I drive a golf cart there for novelty’s sake.

The station is small, the shape of a shed and maybe the size of three pushed together, light blue and unassuming. Flower baskets hang from the awning above the entrance. I assume there isn’t much crime to catch for most of the year – two hundred residents and flower baskets will do that – and, during the tourist season, probably just breaking up the occasional bar fight.

How unprepared they must have been for Roxy Raines.

The door opens with a chime and, to my left, there’s a desk framed by glass panels. Closer and it’s Booker behind the glass, who beams when he sees me and pushes the panel aside. ‘Miss Mona! The lighthouse inspector. Pleasure to run into you again so soon. Why did I have a feeling I would?’

‘Does … the chief work the front desk?’ I ask, scanning the place. There’s an utterly casual and unconcerned air about it, seemingly empty besides the two of us. Not just of people, but of anything – there’s a small kitchenette with a coffee machine and a small basket of tea. Further in, a wall of filing cabinets.

‘They do when they’re as close to retirement as me,’ Booker says with a wet chuckle, his brow polished in sweat. ‘It’s a quiet town when we’re off-peak. Quiet town when we’re on-peak. I’m sure you’ve noticed. Only two of us on patrol during off-season and then we get about a dozen mainland officers on during the summer. Anyway. How can I help you?’

‘I want to make a formal request for access to public records.’

There’s something fun about watching people’s faces change when they realize I’m about to be more trouble than they’d anticipated. Booker shifts then links his hands together atop the counter. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I see. Which records are you after, then?’

‘Files relating to the disappearance of Roxy Raines.’

He stares at me as if I’d said nothing, then smiles, huge, not really in a happy or jovial way. ‘Well. Damn.’

I don’t say anything.

‘And why might you be requesting something like that?’