“Oh, come on, Jury. We didn’t bring the forensic lab with us. And the scene tells you something, doesn’t it? Anything would have been washed away by incoming tides. I expect the shooter knew that.”

“It must have been some kind of meeting. Two people wouldn’t have been strolling along the beach and just happened on one another. Not with a gun in one of their hands. Pretty odd place for a rendezvous, nevertheless. Who called this in?”

“Manager of the Hell Bay Hotel. Just along there.”

“So she was the one out for the stroll?”

“Not exactly. It was a couple of kids.”

Jury sighed. “Is this your blood-out-of-a-turnip turn, Macalvie? Why don’t you just give me the information instead of me having to pry it out of your mouth like a rotten tooth? You asked for my help, remember?”

“You bet. Only this stuff you don’t need to know right at the moment. We’re on our way back to Land’s End and Exeter. On the boat you just—”

“Then why in the bloody hell didn’t you just leave me on Land’s End?”

“I should have thought that obvious, Jury.” He actually sounded hurt. “I wanted you to see the crime scene.” Macalvie started to turn away. “Oh, and—”

Jury levelled a look at him. “‘Oh, and’ what?”

“Maybe interview the ones who found her.”

5

When Jury got back to Land’s End, the bar of the Old Success appeared to be closed or closing.

Yet Tom Brownell was still sitting at the same table, still drinking what looked like the same drink.

“You waited for me?”

Tom nodded. “Knowing Brian, I figured he’d toss you off that island when he was through with you. Me, I looked for a place to eat, since this one is closing down. How about it? There’s a crummy little caff just along the street I’ve been to several times when I’m tired of the Land’s End cachet. I’m starving.”

“Great. And thanks for waiting.”

“So what was the trouble on the island?”

“Woman got shot on the beach at Hell Bay.”

“My God, I guess that is trouble. Any details you can give me? Or is this what we call an ‘ongoing investigation’?”

“Well, it’s not mine, in any event. It’s Macalvie’s. But it is ongoing—”

“Say no more. Let’s eat. Come on. My car’s out in the vast car park.”

Which held about five cars, of which Tom’s Ford Cortina looked to be the oldest.

The “crummy little caff” lived up to its description—cold, Naugahyde booth seats and unpeopled by anyone but a group of up-all-night teenagers playing the jukebox, smoking God only knew what and occasionally taking passes at the snooker table in a small side room.

The single waitress was caff-unhappy, taking their order in surly silence before bringing back tea in thick, chipped mugs.