It’s a good job I’m not the kind of girl who wears heels, even though I could do with being a few inches taller. There’s no way I would make it across the rocky terrain I call my garden with the sharp edges of rocks jutting out of the ground. Its like walking over a neverending pile of plugs - and we all know how much stepping on one plug hurts!

Instead, I’m sitting here tying the laces on my trusted hiking boots. The soles are so thick I could be walking along the sand instead.

My husband, Edward, is already waiting at the gate. He’s a famous geologist and extended member of the royal family, inheriting this castle because nobody else wanted it. He saw the beauty of it, the tranquility of being in an area that no-one dared set foot in. I have aptly named him The King of Rocks, and standing before the gate he looks anything but a king in his clunky boots and rucksack filled with his various technical equipment - because you never know what treasures will be under your feet. Or under your arse if you miss your step!

My rucksack is heavy, filled with enough water bottles to keep us hydrated for the next few hours on our treasure hunt.

The gate clink-clink-clinks up, and as we step out into the forest of rock, a helicopter roars by overhead. We are normally used to seeing heicopters fly by, but this one is different. It takes a sharp turn and steers back in our direction. And something is dropped, something that falls to the grounds with a thunk, something that resembles a body. It lays there, about 200 feet away. The helicopter speeds off.

I can usually move quite nimbly over the rocks but today I trip over my first step. Edward grabs my hand to steady me. I have a bad feeling about this.

I wipe the perspiration from my forehead and clamber over the rocks, Edward matching my pace. I get to the body and I just know. It’s him. It’s my brother who has been missing for the last six years. But he’s dead.