We followed her down into the basement. It was cold, as she’d warned, and a large portable humidifier hummed quietly in the corner, releasing a fine mist into the atmosphere through plastic vents to counteract the effects of potentially document-destroying heat. Dozens of archive boxes lined the metal shelves, organised by year and divided into categories.

‘We’ve digitised some of our earliest records,’ she told us, a trace of pride in her voice. ‘They were so fragile they were in danger of crumbling into nothing. It’s probably best if we search the database for the shipping records that correspond to the time you’re looking for, rather than disturbing the originals.’

She led us over to a computer and flicked on the monitor. I watched her scroll through a long file of scanned documents.

‘The first bailiff on Texel, Ambrosius Baas, kept quite haphazard records, unfortunately. There are lots of holes in his shipping accounts. He was related to Jan Huydecoper, one of the first mayors of Amsterdam and he accepted the post here thinking it would bring him a steady income and a good deal of respect. But his style of governing didn’t suit the townspeople. He spent so much time away from the island he was eventually discharged of his duties altogether. After his disastrous turn as bailiff, the governors decided to split the record-keeping between the postmaster, the dijkgraaf, in charge of building and maintaining the island’s dykes, and the wegermaster, who ensured that goods brought onto the island were weighed and taxed. The responsibility for keeping the shipping ledgers up to date was given to the shipping master and his clerks. That’s helpful. It means we can narrow down the lists, rather than wading through all the cargo and passenger records. Give me a minute.’

We wandered the shelves while Olivia searched the database. Peering into open boxes, I saw stacks of old newspapers and local community magazines. The covers of the magazines had faded, their crisp edges curling like brittle leaves. It occurred to me that the story of my parents’ accident was probably hidden inside one of those magazines. It might even have been a cover story. Within a few hours of the police coming to the house to tell me, a flock of journalists from the mainland had descended on our front lawn to shout questions and track my every movement. Their lenses captured things I never even noticed about myself – the way I styled my blonde hair, for instance, parted dead centre like Aimee Mann, a singer I loved for her daring fashion choices. It was strange to find myself the sudden focus of intense public scrutiny. I was still a child, I should have been grieving; instead, I poured all my energies into coming up with increasingly wild fashion combinations, daubing on my mother’s electric-blue eyeshadow, raiding her closet for the faux-fur vests and handmade floral suits that retained the scent of her sweat and perfume.