Terry was still waiting for us outside the hotel and quickly folded away a copy of the Alderney Journal when he saw us approach. We got in the back of the car and Hawthorne told him where we wanted to go. ‘There’s something you can do for me,’ he added as we pulled away.

‘Whatever you want, Mr Hawthorne!’ Terry was so excited, I was surprised he was able to stay on the road.

‘Do you know the driver of the minibus? The one that picked up guests from the party last night?’

‘That’s Tom McKinley. Of course I know him.’

‘Could you tell him I want to talk to him?’

Hawthorne was right next to me and I glanced at him curiously. ‘Is this about Anne Cleary?’ I asked.

‘It would be interesting to know if she really was on that bus.’

‘You’re not serious.’ It had never occurred to me that she might have lied about her journey home the previous evening.

‘Actually, I am. When someone tells me something, I check it out. That’s what I do.’

‘I can’t think of any reason why Anne Cleary would want to kill Charles le Mesurier.’

‘So what’s new?’ Hawthorne didn’t speak to me again until we arrived.

Our destination was Beaumont Farm, the home of Dr Queripel and his wife. It was on the east side of the island, where the two coastlines curved in towards each other, between Saye and Longis beaches. Curiously, the house itself had no view of the sea, at least not from the living room. Instead, a double-sized picture window looked out onto an oddly disjointed landscape. Much of it was made up of scrub grassland, the wild mix of grass and bracken that I’d seen all over the island, but it was interrupted by strips of cultivated farmland and allotments. A couple of tropical palm trees sprouted incongruously in the middle of it all, as if planted quite by accident. Further away, there was a scattering of industrial buildings – sheds and warehouses – and in the far distance, under a huge sky, a dead straight line that could have demarcated the end of the world but which was actually the edge of the island, with the English Channel on the other side.

According to Terry, the house had been in the Queripel family for generations and it certainly looked the part: solid and sensible rather than beautiful, but dominating its surroundings with a self-confidence that any new build could only envy. It was white with black beams, two storeys high, with a front door and six perfectly symmetrical windows on one side and the inevitable French windows looking out onto a garden filled with flowers on the other. The roof was red-tiled with a single, central chimney, which I guessed would almost certainly be in working order.