“He won’t need much staff, then?”

“Only during the season and then he uses Guernsey girls. He’s had a French cook living in full-time for nearly a year now. She should have left at the end of the season, but stayed on.”

“Sounds a rather obvious set-up.”

She shrugged. “It’s their own affair and she’s a nice girl. I hope he marries her.”

The fog lifted a little and on either hand the sea broke in a white foam over great reefs. Mallory smiled grimly. “I think this is where you start doing your stuff.”

She took over the wheel and altered course half a point. A moment later, through a sudden break in the fog, the towering cliffs of the island loomed into view and then the grey curtain dropped into place again.

Mallory reduced speed and Anne Grant took the cruiser forward into the fog. She seemed completely unperturbed and he shrugged fatalistically, pulled down the other seat and took out a cigarette.

At that moment the whole boat rocked violently and Mallory and the girl were thrown across to the other side of the wheelhouse. Foxhunter yawed alarmingly and Mallory shoved the girl away and scrambled across to the spinning wheel.

As he pulled the boat back on course, Anne Grant moved beside him and they peered out into the fog. Perhaps a hundred feet to starboard he caught a glimpse of something solid moving through the water and a sizable wave rolled back to rock Foxhunter again.

“And what in the hell was that?” he said.

“Probably a basking shark. They’re common enough in these waters, but it must have been a big one to leave a wake like that.”

Mallory stared out into the fog, a frown on his face, remembering the force of that wave. Could a shark, however big it was, have set up such a disturbance? He was still thinking about it when they emerged from the last patch of fog and lie de Roc reared out of the sea a quarter of a mile away.

To the west was St. Pierre, much smaller, a little blurred because visibility at that distance still wasn’t good. Between the two islands the sea frothed and roared over the great underwater bridge.

“We’re in the clear now,” Anne Grant said, and he gave Foxhunter everything she had as they roared through the water towards the great round cove which opened to meet them.

The water was a deep translucent blue, reminding him strangely of the Mediterranean. A stone jetty jutted fifty feet out from the shore and above it was the hotel, a two-storeyed, white-painted building sheltering in a hollow from the winter gales.

A fifteen-foot launch was moored on the far side of the cove. A young, dark-haired man in sun-glasses was sitting in the stern looking over the side. As he turned towards them a swimmer surfaced and Mallory caught a flash of blonde hair.

When they were a hundred feet from the jetty he cut the engines and Foxhunter settled back into the water, drifting in on her own momentum. Anne Grant was already getting the fenders over the side and Mallory ran out to help her. The moment they touched he jumped for the jetty with a line and ran it twice around an iron bollard. Foxhunter jerked once, bumped against the jetty and was still.

As he moved to fasten the other line, an engine roared into life, the sound echoing harshly from the cliffs, and the launch came towards the jetty. The swimmer was already almost there. Anne Grant moved to the port rail and Mallory joined her.

“Fiona,” she said simply.

As the girl arrived Mallory leaned down and hauled her up and over the rail. She crouched on deck for a moment, laughing and shaking herself like a young puppy.

“But it’s marvellous, Anne. Simply marvellous.”

She didn’t even look eighteen, long blonde hair trailing damply to her shoulders. She wore a pair of bathing pants and the upper half of a rubber diving suit in bright yellow that fitted her slim figure like a second skin.

She examined Mallory with interest and her eyes widened in approval. “And where did you find him?”

Anne laughed and kissed her affectionately. “Now, don’t start, Fiona. This is Neil Mallory. He’s going to run the boat for us for a month or two till we get the hang of things.”

Fiona Grant pushed a tendril of wet hair out of her eyes and held out her hand. “I don’t know about Anne, but speaking for myself I’ll try not to learn too fast.”

The launch was no more than twenty or thirty feet away now and its occupant cut the engine and it drifted in towards Foxhunter.

“Who’s this, for goodness” sake?” Anne demanded.

Fiona slipped a wet arm in hers. “A simply marvellous man, Anne. He’s French. Staying here for a week or two to paint and do a little skin-diving.”

“But I thought Owen closed the hotel last week?”

“He did, but luckily I was on the jetty when he came in. I persuaded Owen to change his mind.”

The launch bumped against the side and Mallory caught the thrown line. As he looped it round the rail, the Frenchman vaulted on to the deck. He wore a slim-fitting jersey that left his sunburnt arms bare, and the dark glasses gave him the same slightly sinister and anonymous look the peaked military cap had done in the photo in his file.

Fiona took his arm and turned to face them. “Anne, I’d like you to meet Raoul Guyon,” she said.

the ancient, grey-stone house was firmly rooted into a hollow in the hill, great beech trees flanking it on either side. At some time a large glass conservatory had been added, running along the whole length of the building, and a series of shallow steps dropped down to a stone terrace.

From the terrace the cliffs fell a good two hundred feet into a small funnel-shaped inlet that would have made a wonderfully sheltered mooring had it not been for the jagged line of rocks stretching across the entrance.

Anne Grant leaned on the wall, a cool drink in her hand, and looked out to sea. It had turned into a beautiful day, surprisingly warm for September, with a scattering of white clouds trailing to the horizon. She felt completely relaxed and at peace, happy to be home again. A foot crunched on gravel. When she turned, her father-in-law stood at the top of the steps.

Major-General Hamish Grant, d.s.o., m.g. and bar, had been well named Iron Grant. Six feet four inches in height, with a great breadth of shoulders, his hair was a snow-white mane swept back behind his ears. He wore an old pair of khaki service trousers and a corduroy jacket.

He probed at the top step with his walking stick. “You there, Anne?”

“Here I am, Hamish.”

She went up the stops and took his arm and his great, craggy face broke into a warm smile. “Fiona seemed tremendously excited about the new boat, but she was hardly in the house for a moment before she was changed and off out again.”

In a corner of the terrace stood a table containing a tray of drinks and shaded by a large striped umbrella. She led him across and he eased his great bulk into a wicker chair.

“She’s gone down to the hotel to meet Raoul Guyon, this young French painter who’s staying there. She promised to show him some of the island before lunch.”

“What about this fellow Mallory?”

“He should be here at any moment. I asked him to pick up the diving equipment. There was no real hurry, but I thought you might like to meet him.”

“I certainly would if only to thank him for the way he handled this Southampton affair.” He frowned. “Mallory. Neil Mallory. There’s something familiar about that name. Irish, of course.”

“He certainly doesn’t have an accent.”

“And you say he was cashiered for cooking the mess books? That certainly doesn’t fit in with the sort of man who’d take on a couple of thugs in a back alley.”

“That’s what I thought. He’s a strange man, Hamish. At times there’s something almost frightening about him. He’s so curiously remote and detached from things. I think you’ll like him.”