‘Audrey,’ Marcelo soothed her, ‘that won’t help.’ He stepped forward and introduced his Rolex to Officer Crawford. ‘I’m his lawyer. Let’s go inside, sit down, talk it out.’

‘Not without the cuffs.’

‘You and I both know that’s not how policing works. He’s only just arrived, how could—’

‘Dad,’ Michael said, and it took me a moment to realise he was talking to Marcelo. ‘It’s all right.’

But Marcelo was in full flight. ‘You don’t get to call martial law on this resort just because you’re the only policeman here. I know you’re in an uncomfortable situation and someone out there is missing a father or a brother or a son – and my family and I will be happy to participate in informal interviews to assist in your identification. But to imply there’s anything criminal . . . that’s . . . well, that’s just a staggering accusation. It’s profiling based on the family history. We will sue. If you wish to detain him, you’ll need cause and a charge, of which you have neither. Now, I’m only working six minutes pro bono, and I think we’ve just ticked over. Are we done?’

I felt the urge to apologise simply being in the proximity of Marcelo’s tirade. But Crawford dug his heels in. ‘We are not done. I’m allowed to use my discretion, seeing as there’s been a murder.’

This started a murder-murmur as everyone repeated the word in disbelief. I caught Sofia smiling. Marcelo balled his fists. My mother was not one for gasping, but she covered her mouth with one hand.

‘Some incident,’ Michael said pointedly.

‘You’re finished,’ Marcelo growled to Crawford. That was legal speak that even I understood. ‘I’ve ruined people over less.’

‘And I’ve stood up to people over more.’

They were interrupted by the slam of the guesthouse doors. A tall woman, my age, with a tanned jaw but a pasty colouration around her eyes – a ski-goggle tan – was standing on the deck. She was bare-armed, in a t-shirt and vest, unbothered by the cold. I recognised her as the woman with the amphibious Land Rover who’d fixed my tyre chains.

‘Officer, do you need a hand? People are on edge as it is – what’s all the yelling?’

‘It doesn’t concern you,’ Marcelo said, tiring at the prospect of another argumentative party.

‘I own this resort, so I think it does.’

‘Well, in that case, could you tell this wannabe Poirot to stop harassing your guests? And if you want to quell panic, how about not throwing the word “murder” around?’

‘First time I’ve heard the word “murder”.’ The owner raised an eyebrow at Crawford. ‘Really? You mean Green Boots?’