I had a dream. A prosaic, ordinary dream. It had three parts.

That was it, really. A simple outline map. I didn't know the island but the shape was distinct. A gentle 'U' shape, on its side, with the lower arm much longer than the upper. I saw a long, thin-lined cross in the middle and sensed that it, the island, was at the head of a river.

In the morning, awake, I quickly drew the map and then set about looking for it on an atlas. I sensed that I knew where to look. From its shape I guessed that it had to be on the west coast of North Europe, among that string of islands that runs down from Denmark to Holland. I had been reading, here on h2g2, of the Frisian Islands and that would give me a nice logical reason for the dream, even though it was a part of the world I knew nothing of.

Sure enough, there it was. Borkum. The shape matched my sketch, and you know what, right where I had indicated a cross, was a small airport. Spot on.

Borkum is a German Island, the last of the German Frisian Islands, right on the border with Holland. According to Trillian's Child, they drink a lot of strange tea. And, it's a good place for holidays. I imagine, though, it is a pretty dismal place on a November evening. I imagine it is a bit like the Essex marshes. Flat, cold and lonely, and more than a little isolated. Anyway, that's fine. I had been reading h2g2, hence the dream. A satisfactory explanation.

As simple as that. Just a feeling that a man had died, and that it was important in relation to what was to happen. I also had an idea of where it happened, and in the morning I marked the point on the map, a little to the north of the island, I thought.

The man died. He was killed in a catamaran accident, thrown overboard as it collided with a fishing boat on its way to Borkum. The catamaran was an inter-island ferry coming from the island to the north of Borkum. The man was identified from the contents of his wallet. No-one answered when the police called at his home on the island. The police knew of him, a registered, though unconvicted, paedophile, and knew him locally to be a loner, a recluse, with no family or friends. He had been caught in an international net of men exchanging pictures of children. His pictures were not of an especially awful category, and he had not been charged, simply cautioned and registered. The uniformed policewoman that called at his door had been told that he lived alone, but no more than that, and thus expected no reply. She went through the motions of walking around the L shaped bungalow, peering in the windows and trying the patio doors at the back. The neighbours that saw her drew their curtains tight and hoped that all the fuss that had happened when the man had been arrested would not happen again. They preferred to pretend that he, and the bungalow, did not exist and therefore pretended that neither was there. The policewoman saw nothing out of the ordinary and had neither the will nor the authority to force an entry. She was also, out of duty, the only attendee at his cremation one week later. She had no idea, or interest, in what may happen to the bungalow. That, she presumed, was someone else's concern.

Some days later the policewoman was returning home from an evening with friends, with her husband and sleeping children, in the family car, some short time after midnight. They passed by the bungalow. She noticed, but did not register immediately, that a light was on. The notion that something was odd gradually crept up on her as they drove along. She asked her husband, who was driving, if he would mind turning the car and re-tracing their route. He shrugged, performed a textbook three point turn in the deserted street, and they returned to the bungalow. It was dark. There were no lights.

I had a distinct and clear picture of an 'L' shaped bungalow, and, more specifically, the garden. In the crook of the 'L' was a paved patio, and set in that patio was a small sunken area at one end of which was a concrete tub containing a dead plant. I think the tub was painted a dull red and that paint was peeling. I stand in the street, outside the bungalow. I have next to me a very small child, a girl, and she says the word "blow" or blau (I don't know the language, it isn't grown-up English.) and she points at the bungalow. In the sunken area, next to the tub, I can see a piece of blue denim. I open the metal gate and enter the garden. The piece of denim becomes a jacket. There is a child lying in the sunken area, among dead leaves, with her head between the tub and the concrete edge. She is wearing a denim jacket, a cotton flowery dress, white socks and black buckled shoes. Her hair is long, longer than shoulder length, and reddish brown. The side of her face that is on the dead leaves is livid and stained, like a bruise. I have read enough Patricia Cornwall to know that is a bad sign. I recognise the child. Just before I wake I think, I hope, that I see her right leg move. I wake.

I draw, along with the sketch map of the island, a quick plan of the garden. I write the word blau, although I don't realise that it is the German word for blue.

This child has been in the news recently. You know her. I know her. The publicity has imprinted her features on all our minds. That is how I recognise her, it is an anniversary of her abduction. That explains why I should have been dreaming of her. I hope it does. I don't, in any case, believe in dreams or any sort of psychic phenomena. But, it's a dilemma. What if...

It can easily be explained, can't it, the dream. I read about the Frisian Islands. Even though I have never been there I am probably vaguely aware of their shapes. I read The Riddle of the Sands. The area is buried deep in my sub-conscious. I, like all of you, want a happy conclusion to that abduction story. There have been cases in the news of men 'imprisoning' children for years. It's just a dream, putting disparate facts together. It's just an ordinary dream. But, what if...??

Sometimes I have seen, on the television, an American series about a medium who dreams stuff, and then works with the police to solve crimes. It is quite a well put together programme. Of course, it's utter nonsense. It belongs on the television. But, what if... ??. I wouldn't forgive myself.

I spend some restless nights, dreamless.

I do some googling on the internet. I find a nice site about Borkum. It is in German, but has some webcam videos. Idly, I view them one by one, getting an idea of the place, glancing at the pictures as I work at my desk. The pictures are taken in bright sunshine. There is sand, much sand, a lighthouse, more sand, a bird sanctuary, a church. I catch a snapshot of the screen out of the corner of my eye. No. Surely not. Please tell me it is not so! There, next to the church, is 'my' 'L'-shaped bungalow. It is not quite a bungalow, more a chalet with mansard windows in the roof, but the return of the 'L' is single story. I can't see the garden. I freeze the webcam. There is no doubt in my mind.

I tell Mrs P that I need a break, and arrange work schedules to allow me a long weekend. Research indicates that I must go to Amsterdam, and catch a train to Emden and a ferry to the island. All this I do on the Friday, in silence, in a foreign land. I have with me a list of hotels and an overnight bag. Arriving in the evening, I find myself the first 'hotel' on the list. I don't speak German. The landlady – for it is really just a bed and breakfast – doesn't speak English. Somehow we arrange that I will stay there. I hand over my Euros. The next morning, the Saturday, I enjoy my breakfast, complete with strange cups of tea, but I am nervous. This, of course, is a fool's errand. I am being self-indulgent but, at least, I will soon be at peace with the knowledge that I did what I could. The child will never be found, least of all here, on this strange island and I will know myself to be a fool. I will be content with that.

The policewoman remained disturbed about the house, but had little power to do much about nothing more than a feeling. The paperwork alone would be forbidding, let alone convincing her superiors on the mainland. Nevertheless, she took to passing the house on every possible occasion. One of those was her walk, with her small daughter, to ballet class in the church hall on a Saturday morning.

I found the church easily, and walked towards 'my' bungalow, just where it was on the webcam. It looked much cleaner and brighter than it had in my mind. It was a bright November morning, though bitterly cold. I hunched up inside my anorak as I arrived by the metal fence to look at the garden. The gate was open. Stood there, I was in the way of a woman wheeling her daughter in a buggy. I moved back to let her pass. As she did so, the small girl squeaked Blau and pointed at the bungalow. I look at her mother and see she is gazing in the direction that her daughter is pointing. I can hardly bring myself to do it, but I do and there, in what looks like a dried up pond set in the paving, I can just see part of what may be a blue denim jacket.

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