‘Shut up, Louise,’ Clarissa said. ‘Just shut up.’

The next moment she turned and left the room.

Renée Glover was the only one who hadn’t uttered a word. Clarissa wasn’t going to call the police. Of course not. Clarissa would come up with a plan. Basil Hunter would go along with anything Clarissa said, of that Renée had no doubt. So would Syl. Old Hortense was still struggling with the camera. Louise Hunter seemed larger than ever and she had an outraged expression on her face. Renée tried to catch Dr Sylvester-Sale’s eye and failed. They’d agreed to be careful, but surely they could look at each other when Clarissa was not about?

The silk curtains were drawn across the french windows and they stirred slightly. Was that the evening breeze – or was someone standing there?

Renée walked up to the curtains and pulled them apart sharply. She didn’t believe the killer would be outside.

Behind the net curtains the windows gaped wide open.

Renée Glover walked out through the french windows and glanced round the terrace. No one. The warm Caribbean night closed in on her. The stars shone with fierce brilliancy – was that Canopus? The full moon above the palm trees had a purplish tinge. Only an hour previously she had stood on this very spot, admiring the crimson-streaked sunset and listening to the surf and the mournful cries of seagulls…

All was quiet now. There was not a breath of wind, just a wonderful balminess in the air. The only sound was that of the insects, a kind of low, steady hiss produced by the rubbing together of thousands of gossamer wings. A moth brushed lightly against her face.

She gazed into the night, at the great avenue of spreading palms thick with shadows, at the harbour lights in the distance. Odd, that she was not at all afraid. Suddenly she heard a tiny splashing noise close by, then another. Stephan? He liked sitting beside the pool, dropping in pebbles.