The receptionist moved to a telephone and spoke into it. Then she replaced the receiver. ‘You can go up,’ she said. ‘It’s room 232.’

Clare moved towards the lift but Chris shook his head.

‘Don’t like lifts.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re joking?’

‘Nope.’

‘Chris? I’ve seen you tackling huge guys armed with knives, and you’re afraid of lifts?’

‘Police training doesn’t actually cover plunging to your death in a lift.’

Clare shook her head. ‘Just when you think you know someone.’

‘Stairs this way,’ he said.

As they mounted the stairs Chris ran over the occupants of the Lodge. ‘Like I say, victim was Russell Fox.’

‘And the rest of the party?’

‘His sister and her husband, plus three of Russell’s friends.’

‘And they’re all here?’

They reached the second floor and Chris pushed open a fire door. ‘Along here, I guess. Yeah, all staying here. Keen to get away, though.’

‘Where do they live?’

‘The three men in Glasgow. The sister and her husband, London.’

‘At least they’re not abroad, then. Oh, here we are. Room 232.’ She knocked softly on the door and a few seconds later it was opened by sandy-haired man who Chris introduced as Eamon Ferry. He nodded to Chris and gave Clare a polite smile.

‘Friend of Russell,’ he said, and Clare smiled back.

Eamon stood aside to let them enter then let the door slam behind him. Clare and Chris moved into a large square room. It was decorated in soft greens and shades of heather. An enormous bed was adorned with scatter cushions in a grey tartan. To the side of the bed, two French doors led to a small balcony and to the right of the doors was a sitting area with a sofa and chairs in the same fabric as the cushions.

Clare’s gaze swept the room and came to rest on one of the chairs and its occupant. She stared, and the woman in the chair stared back. Her brow clouded and she seemed confused by Clare’s appearance.

It was Gaby Fox.

Clare hadn’t particularly noticed Gaby’s surname when they’d met at the wedding. She was known to everyone simply as Gaby. But now she remembered seeing the name on the seating plan at the reception and she realised Gaby must be the victim’s sister. She thought back to the wedding – the maître d’ calling Gaby out to take a phone call then returning minutes later to fetch her husband. The news of her brother’s death.

She was more casually dressed than at the wedding, in a Breton top and cropped jeans, but she still exuded an air of glamour. She swung her feet out from under her and slipped them into a pair of mules on the floor. Rising, she said, ‘You’re a police officer?’