‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to take us.’ Leon runs his hand across his chin. ‘Has nobody told you? The boat’s slipped its mooring. It’s a long way out at sea.’

Her eyes widen, as she places her anorak slowly back on the hook. ‘Good God, that’s all I need. Mr Patterson will—’

‘I wouldn’t worry about him.’ Alice notes the irritation in her own voice. ‘He should be here helping you, Christine. Leaving you to cope on your own like this, especially in a storm, is a bit much, if you ask me.’

‘Well, I’m sure he’d be here if he could. Let’s not jump to conclusions.’

‘So why isn’t he?’ Her voice cracks up a notch. ‘Has he given you a reason?’

Christine shrugs, tears filling her eyes, and Alice realises she’s been a bit heavy-handed. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m just a bit agitated. Sorry.’

‘If I’m honest, I can’t get hold of him,’ Christine says with a sniff. ‘I haven’t been able to since I arrived. All instructions have been emailed or were left here for me, and—’

‘And you’re doing a great job.’ Leon’s voice is calm and even. ‘Against the odds.’

She smiles, as though grateful for the vote of confidence, but Alice feels uneasy. Where the hell is the mysterious Cameron Patterson? The man who invited her here in the first place, praised her sculpture, bought it for a high price?

Leon looks about him, grabs a pink box of tissues from the chest where Alice’s sculpture still stands, and hands them to Christine. ‘Do you know if there’s a boatyard on the mainland that might send a boat out?’

Christine pulls one, two, three tissues from the box, lifts her glasses, and dabs her damp, tired eyes. ‘Well, there’s a small boatyard a bit further down the coast, but they would be closed at the moment, I expect. I can try calling them, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind trying.’

‘Of course.’ She turns, picks up the land phone, pins the receiver to her ear. ‘That’s odd,’ she says, looking back at them. ‘The line is quite dead.’ She hangs up. ‘It must be the storm. Not to worry, I’ll grab my mobile.’ She reaches under the desk. ‘Oh God,’ she says.

‘What?’ Alice makes her way round the desk to where Christine is now crouching. Christine looks up, her red-framed glasses vivid and harsh against her pale face, a severed phone wire in her hand.

‘Who would do this?’ Christine drops the wire as though it’s hot, and rises, straightens her cardigan.

‘Something’s so wrong here.’ Alice hears the tremble in her voice, as she returns to Leon’s side. ‘We need to get off this island as soon as possible. All of us.’