Foolish old woman, she said to herself. You didn’t even like him. She knew though that she was not weeping for Charlie, but for her brother, killed in the war. Any sudden death brought back the grief, even a news item on the radio or in the newspaper. Silly old woman, she thought again. What will they all think? And she tried to concentrate on her book. Paul Derbyshire found the silence constricting and unnecessary. He wanted to talk. Of course murder was terrible, quite terrible. His mouth formed an embarrassing smile and he quickly erased it. Murder was terrible, but there were more important matters now to be decided. He disliked unpleasantness, and he tried to conjure a more agreeable image: the face of a girl, a slim, athletic body, but even to him that seemed tasteless, inappropriate. His thoughts drifted back to Charlie. What a horrible little man he had been, a threat to all that was important and lovely.

Pamela Marshall caught Paul Derbyshire’s eye. She smiled beautifully and enjoyed his response, his pleasure at her attention then his sudden embarrassment. What an old woman he is, she thought. He’s just dying to have a good gossip. He doesn’t realize the danger at all. We shall all have to be careful about what we say. I must talk to Jerry.

Jerry Packham felt physically ill and wondered what would happen if he asked to go to the bathroom. Would someone accompany him?

Elizabeth was planning lunch. Soup first, then something cold and quick. She supposed that the policemen would cater for themselves.

Mark realized that he would never enjoy coming to the island again, and grieved more for that loss than for the loss of a man he had hardly known. Will Jonathan be pleased, he thought, or will his uncle’s death be of as little importance to him as it is to me?

Nick remembered his mother’s death. At least Charlie had died quickly. Then all the old bitterness returned and he knew that Charlie’s death had changed nothing.

George Palmer-Jones watched everyone, wondered what they were thinking, and tried to suppress a rising and unsuitable curiosity.

When Savage walked in he seemed to bring all the energy of the storm with him. They looked at him with interest. He was impressive enough, though at first it was hard to explain why he impressed. He was only just tall enough to be a policeman, and slight. It was the extraordinary, drawn face which held their attention and the power and self-confidence which impressed them. There was something Celtic about his dark eyes. Palmer-Jones expected him to be Welsh or Scottish, and the Merseyside accent came as a surprise. He was courteous, but they all felt that he found the formalities irksome and that he was impatient to be elsewhere. While he was talking his eyes moved around the room, and the intensity of his stare contradicted the politeness of his words.

“I must apologize for not having introduced myself before,” he said, “and for asking you to wait for me here. I’ll be asking you to be patient for a bit longer, I’m afraid. I’ll explain as briefly as I can what we plan to do. I’m sure that you will co-operate.”