Around them the conversation about the swan continued.

‘The wind’s supposed to drop tomorrow afternoon.’ This was Hugh Shaw. Jane knew his charm had been practised from birth. You could tell he’d always been adored by women – his mother and grandmother, certainly, and there’d probably been a nanny too – but still she found herself seduced by him. He was so pretty and his smile was so languid and appealing. He had to work hard to achieve the desired response and so she felt he deserved her admiration and amusement. ‘Birders are already travelling to Shetland on the chance that they’ll get to Fair Isle to see the swan.’

Jane looked at Ben, but he hardly seemed to be following the conversation.

‘Even if the wind does drop, there probably won’t be time for the plane to come in tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It’s starting to get dark so early.’ She hoped that was the case. It would be worse if the plane arrived late in the afternoon with a full load of visitors and immediately took off again without them. She’d have to find rooms for the incomers and feed them. She didn’t see how that would work – an influx of people with Maurice and Poppy hiding away in the flat. And if birdwatchers could get in, so could journalists. She had a sudden image of hacks surrounding the lighthouse, pointing their cameras through the windows, of Maurice, his head in his hands, appearing on the front pages of tabloid newspapers. Perhaps she should take the decision to close the field centre to new guests, but the reporters would probably find somewhere on the island to stay. Jane hoped that the weather would close in again, at least for the next few days, at least until Perez had discovered the murderer. Or until she had.

There was a lull in the conversation and she took in the scene. Dougie had moved on to pudding and was cramming his mouth full of lemon meringue pie. The Fowlers were talking quietly to each other. Jane saw that under the table John had taken Sarah’s hand and again she felt a stab of loneliness. I have nobody to touch, nobody to wrap me up in her arms to comfort me. Hugh was leaning back in his chair, his eyes half closed and a smile of contentment on his face. Ben was fiddling with his paper napkin and staring out into the darkness.

Someone in this building is a murderer, she thought. I could be sharing a meal with a murderer. There was an Agatha Christie book she’d read when she was a kid. A bunch of people on an island. Dying, one by one. It was warm in the dining room. She’d lit a big fire of driftwood to cheer them up here and in the common room. But she shivered.

She went into the kitchen to make coffee. While the kettles were boiling she stacked the plates in the dishwasher and then spooned instant granules into a big Thermos jug. Her evening ritual. The final task before the end of the working day. She thought suddenly that this would be her last year at the centre. She wouldn’t come back to the Isle once the season was over. It wouldn’t be the same and, anyway, she was ready now to move on. By becoming a victim of violence, Angela Moore had done that for her.