She saved her best until last: ‘I’ll pay extra.’

Alastair let his arms drop to his sides. He scratched at his head and then examined the result under his fingernails. Frowning, he got out a handkerchief so grubby it could keep a microbiologist busy for weeks and blew his nose.

‘Money fully paid upfront,’ he said. ‘No loud music, no animals, no extra guests permitted in your room. There’s a TV but we don’t get much of a reception up here. No meals provided. Ain’t got no chocolates or petals and ain’t gonna get ’em neither.’

Vivian got out her purse and Alastair fetched a key, which, when he pushed it over the desk towards her, she saw was the kind of heavy black metal that wouldn’t be out of place in a Victorian prison.

He kept his hand on it and cleared his throat.

‘It sounds to me,’ Alastair said thoughtfully, ‘like this girl of yours would be the kind of girl to leave a nice comment on one of them feedback card thingies what have to be sent off …’

Vivian suspected this was, perhaps, a breakthrough moment. That, or the man was having some kind of episode.

‘My name’s Vivian.’ She held out her hand. ‘Vivian Mackenzie.’

He took her hand and crushed it in his, holding on to it for his next words.

‘If they have finished out on that island’ – he gave her a long, considered, knowing look – ‘I’ll need to start makin’ a living with my own customers.’

He let go of her hand and she massaged some life back into it.

The perfect idea popped into her head like snapped cartilage.

‘Excellent!’ She smiled brightly. ‘Now, I wonder if you know anyone who could lend me their boat?’

Chapter 51

Thea really was a lab rat in a maze with another rat literally on her tail.

Something smashed somewhere. Thea ducked instinctively and whimpered to herself.

The black spots in front of her eyes sinuously twisted into shapes to distract her – rabbit ears, bow, teardrop – until she had to stop, place a hand on the wall and take some deep breaths, too afraid to close her eyes in case she disappeared into sleep or hallucination. Now her discs were off, sleep was claiming her, inch by inch.

What if she fell asleep just as Kyle rounded the corner? He could slit her throat while she talked to imaginary owls.

The corridor was as bright and white and glossy as it had always been, like the shine on panna cotta. No, she couldn’t think about food. The last thing she’d eaten had been those crackers back in the lighthouse: thin, diet things made mostly of air.