“Did any of the rest of you ever see him again?” I asked.

Everyone shook their heads. I looked at the photograph again. It did seem strange that he was the only one in the picture who hadn’t been invited to Crocodile Island. But did that make him the killer? And if so, where on earth was he? We had searched the entire island and we were certain now that we were the only ones who were there.

Eric looked at his watch. It was half past twelve. “I suggest we continue this meeting downstairs,” he said.

“I need to change,” Brenda said.

“Me too,” Libby agreed.

Everyone started to move in different directions.

“Hold on a minute!” I said. “I thought we were all going to stick together. I think we should all stay in this room.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Eric snapped. “We have to eat something. It’s lunchtime. And anyway, we’ve just searched the island. We know there’s nobody else here.”

“Well, I’m staying with Tim,” I said.

“How do you know I’m not the killer?” Tim demanded.

Because whoever killed Rory and the others is brilliant and fiendish and you still have trouble tying your shoelaces. That was what I thought, but I didn’t say anything. I just shrugged.

“I don’t want to be near anyone,” Libby said. “I feel safer on my own.”

“Me, too.” Brenda nodded. “And I’m certainly not having anyone in the room with me while I’m changing.”

“We can meet in ten minutes,” Eric said. “We’re inside the house. We know there’s nobody else on the island. We’ll meet in the dining room at twenty to one.”

He was wrong of course. This was one little group that was never going to meet again. But how could we know that? We were scared and we weren’t thinking straight.

Tim and I went back to our room. Tim scratched his head, which was still damp from the water tank. “Johnny could be hiding on the island,” he said. “What if there’s a secret room?”

The same thought had already occurred to me, but I’d tapped every wall and every wooden panel and nothing had sounded hollow. “I don’t think there are any secret rooms, Tim,” I said.

“But you can’t be sure . . .” Tim began to tap his way along the wall, his eyes half-closed, listening for a hollow sound. A few moments later, he straightened up, excited. “There’s definitely something on the other side here!” he cried.

“I know, Tim,” I said. “That’s the window.”

I left him in the bedroom, drying his hair, and went back downstairs. I was going to join the others in the dining room. But I never got that far. I was about halfway down when I heard it. A short, sudden scream. Then a crashing sound. It had come from somewhere outside.