“London is definitely the location. You really know the Met, don’t you?”

“Very funny. You’re Sir Thomas Brownell?”

“I try to avoid that.”

Jury laughed. “May I buy you another whisky, Tom? Your clear-up rate is legendary. A hundred percent.”

“No. More like ninety.”

Jury laughed. “Where did you go wrong?”

“Get me that drink and I might tell you. So, are you buying because I have a title?”

“Not at all. Because you don’t like it. You remind me of a friend. Once titled. Now not.”

“Oh? He did something terrible and got stripped of it?” Brownell sounded hopeful.

“Of them. Earl, viscount, baron, et cetera. No, he simply took advantage of the Peerage Act. He gave them back. He didn’t like being called ‘lord.’”

“Chap after my own heart. I’m profiling him: canny, straightforward, no-nonsense type.”

“That’s about right.”

“Tell me more about this untitled friend of yours.”

“Let me get you that drink, first.” Jury collected both glasses and headed for the bar, thinking about Tom Brownell’s reputation. Perhaps the man had missed solving one or two cases, but he was a legend. Retired several years ago; Jury wondered why. He took the refills back to the table.

Tom nodded toward the door to the bar. “This pub seems suddenly full of police,” he said, looking at the two approaching their table. “Friends of yours?”

“No.”

“Superintendent Jury?” said DCI Whitten. “Commander Macalvie regrets he’s not here.”

“Hell, he could have just rung me.”

Whitten laughed. “He sent me to take you to him.”

“That sounds ominous. Why?”

“Bit of trouble on one of the islands. He’d appreciate it if you’d helicopter over to St. Mary’s.”

“Why would I do that?”

“He’d like your help.”

“Get him on the phone.”

Whitten pulled out his mobile, punched in a number. In a few moments he held the mobile out for Jury.

Jury said into it, “This was your reason for meeting me, Macalvie?”

“It is now,” said Macalvie.

4

Whitten had shown him the police photos of Manon Vinet, and Jury had looked at them for longer than necessary. He was taken with the symmetry of a face that might have been constructed by a master architect.

They crossed the launchpad and got into a police vehicle driven by a constable. “They’re still organizing the boat trip to Bryher.”

As they pulled away, Jury asked, “Why not the helicopter?”

“Because St. Mary’s and Tresco are the only islands where a helicopter can land. To travel between the islands, it takes a boat. One usually leaves around early evening, but not today. Today, we requested that nobody leave.”

“How was that request received?”

“By the people who live there, with their unflagging equanimity.”

Jury smiled. “There’s a message there somewhere. What is it?”