“The irony,” Whitten went on to say, “would not be lost on anyone who knew the Isles of Scilly are proof against any disturbance, possibly the safest land in Britain.” He looked down at the woman who had been lying there now for two hours, lying still except for the water’s lapping at her side, very still and very beautiful, as if she had now become part of the granite of the islands that were declared an area of outstanding natural beauty. “Also designated as a Heritage Coast. Nothing cheap or tawdry.” Whitten spread his arms. “Do you see a Starbucks?”

Macalvie snickered. “Not yet.”

Gilly had not realized how much tension had built up until the laughter broke it. It was more than the death and the pale body. It didn’t stem from a turf war, a jealous guarding of his authority by DCI Whitten. What she saw was quite the opposite: relief. There was relief that this unprecedented crime should be turned over to the Devon-Cornwall constabulary—to Divisional Commander Macalvie.

The mood was not helped by the ceaseless, thunderous crash of sea against rock. This little part of the coastline offered no protection from wind and water. Either the shape of the bay or the promontory seemed to make it worse, as if the rocks out there were a bulwark against the waves, which consequently built up into an even stronger force. It was like a fist beating and beating against a door.

Macalvie, done with staring and breathing in this round of death, got up and motioned for Gilly to go ahead. She veritably fell on the body, as eagerly (she hated to think) as a necrophiliac.

Macalvie looked up the coast and saw lights twinkling. “That the hotel?”

“The Hell Bay, yes.”

DCI Whitten had filled Macalvie in as best he could on the brief boat trip from St. Mary’s. The Hell Bay Hotel was the only accommodation on Bryher.

They walked over wet sand. “It gets enough custom to stay open?” said Macalvie.

“Indeed, yes. It’s considered one of the best small hotels in England, actually.”

“Jesus. People are so fond of isolation?” To Macalvie, isolation was a pub shutting down when he was the last one in it.

“Well, yes. I can see its attraction for anyone who has to drive the M2 into London during rush hour. Remember, too, you haven’t seen any of this in daylight, in sunshine. It’s quite beautiful. This sand is white.”

Even in the darkness, it looked ghostly, ghost-sand.

Whitten went on. “I showed our police photo round the hotel, but none of the staff recognized her. I thought I should get right on that without waiting.”

“You should. Guests this time of year?”

“A few. Four, I believe she said.”

“The owner? The manager?”