‘If you could remain here in the meantime,’ Clare said, ‘I’d be grateful. Just until our initial enquiries are concluded. It would be easier for us to keep in touch with you.’

‘You’ll let us know when we can go, then,’ Luke said. It was more a statement than a question.

‘Of course.’ Clare smiled. ‘We won’t keep you a moment longer than necessary.’

As they walked back towards the main staircase Chris said, ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘Nope. Cheeky bastard.’

‘I thought the two of you would get on. So, what now?’

‘Let’s go and speak to Eamon Ferry. Find out what they were up to on Friday night.’

Chapter 5

They found Eamon Ferry in a small section of garden to the rear of the hotel. He was sitting at a wooden table with another two men and he looked up as Clare and Chris approached. He took a last drag from his cigarette then exhaled and stubbed it out in a metal ashtray. The others followed his gaze and Clare took her first look at the two men who had made up the rest of the house party. They struck her as an ill-matched pair and she wondered what they had in common. Their expressions, unlike Eamon Ferry’s practised smile, were guarded, unsmiling even. Was it the shock of what had happened? Or was there something else?

‘DI Clare Mackay,’ she said. Then she motioned towards Chris. ‘I gather you’ve met DS West.’

The men nodded and Eamon did a quick round of introductions. ‘Doug Gerrard,’ he said, indicating a round-faced man, his neatly trimmed goatee beard, flecked with grey. ‘And Steve,’ he went on, nodding towards the other. ‘Steve Christie.’

Clare studied them. She thought Steve Christie looked vaguely familiar. His face was thin, pinched even, his curly brown hair spiked up with gel. His cheek was scarred, and Clare wondered if he’d been round the block a few times. He seemed to be avoiding her eye. Did he have cause to be uncomfortable with police officers? Doug Gerrard, by contrast, sat studying Clare and Chris, his eyes lingering far longer on Clare as he took her in, up and down. She met his eye, challenging his overt scrutiny, but he continued staring, a hint of a smile on his lips.

They were casually dressed, Eamon the smartest in a polo shirt and dark linen trousers. The others were in shorts and T-shirts. A bottle of Ambre Solaire sat in the centre of the table, its fragrance mixing with the occasional stale whiff from the ashtray. They were drinking craft beers and, as Clare regarded them, Steve Christie raised a bottle to his lips, swigging from it.

Eamon indicated two empty wooden garden chairs and they sat, Clare dragging hers round so it wasn’t facing directly into the sun.