They breakfasted on the terrace, overlooking the sloping gardens which ran down to the private beach. It was a glorious morning but the heat was already building and Richard thought longingly of the air-conditioned cool of the hotel. He looked up from his plate of scrambled eggs and sausages.

"So, what is on the menu for today?"

"I think we should just have a day of observation – getting to know the hotel staff and our fellow guests. Let's see what the Chinese do – you could try sitting in the lobby reading the papers and keep an eye out for them, follow them, if you can."

"And what will you be doing?"

"Making friends with the maid. If you want to know what's going on in a hotel, talk to the domestic staff."

She watched him eat with increasing interest. "Do you normally eat that big a breakfast?"

"No. They call it an English Breakfast, but it's a travesty: there should really be bacon, mushrooms, fried bread, baked beans …"

She threw up her hands in horror. "It's barbaric, eating all that first thing in the morning. No wonder the English are so stolid!"

"But the silly thing is, they call it an English Breakfast but no-one actually eats breakfasts like that at home. Everyone has toast or cereal but as soon as they get into a hotel they expect the Full English. But it's nice, just on the odd occasion, and I'm very partial to a sausage."

Their attention was suddenly caught by angry shouting and squealing at the entrance to the terrace. They looked across. A small dog was cowering beneath the kicks of one of the waiters. Camille was on her feet in an instant but Richard was even quicker, spinning the man around and flinging him back against the wall.

"That" he said, panting a little, "is not the way to treat a defenceless animal."

The waiter struggled but Richard had him in a firm hold. "Why are you getting so worked up, it's just a flea-bitten piece of vermin" he spat. But before Richard could reply, a well dressed man in his forties with slicked back hair bustled in.

"What is going on? What is all this commotion?" he demanded.

Richard looked at him enquiringly. "I am Lemarr Gregson, the manager of this hotel."

"Well, Mr Gregson, may I suggest that you instil into your staff some semblance of civilised behaviour? This man was kicking that little dog over there. In my country he would be reported to the authorities."

Gregson lifted his eyebrows. "And you are …?"

"Insp … Richard Carmichael, from London. And that is my wife Camille. As you know, we English are a nation of animal lovers. All that dog needs is a good meal – can't you see how thin he is?" He walked over to the table where he and Camille had been sitting, picked up the remaining sausage from his plate and beckoned to the dog, which sidled up to him nervously, snatched the food from his hand and devoured it ravenously.

"You see, there's no need for violence." He fed the dog another sausage from the buffet. It was a crossbreed, undoubtedly the result of many irregular couplings but its face was appealing and despite the beating it had taken there was still a wag in its tail. It licked its lips appreciatively.

"Who does it belong to?"

"No-one. It's just a stray. Hangs around here all the time. My dear Mr and Mrs Carmichael I am so sorry that your breakfast has been disturbed by this oaf of a waiter. I will see that he is suitably disciplined and that the dear little doggie is looked after. Perhaps you would join me for some complimentary drinks before dinner this evening? It is not often that I enjoy the company of such a lovely lady!" He smirked at Camille, who forced herself to smile back at him.

"Thank you, that would be lovely, wouldn't it darling?"

"Erm … yes … very nice."

"Otis was right", she said when they were back in the safety of their room. "Definitely a sleazeball. He smiles with his teeth but it doesn't reach his eyes."

"Oozing charm from every pore, he oiled his way around the floor" Richard mused. "My Fair Lady" he added by way of explanation, to her startled gaze. "Mum's favourite film – we must have watched it dozens of times."

"And I thought you knew nothing about popular culture – you're full of surprises today, Richard. Why did you attack that waiter?"

"Can't bear cruelty to animals" he replied tersely. "Especially dogs. There's no excuse for it."

"So I suppose you also sponsor homeless dogs, as well as children?" Her tone was flippant and teasing but Richard looked embarrassed and turned away. "Oh my God, you do, don't you?"

He muttered something inaudible.

"Don't tell me you send the dogs postcards as well?"

"No of course not, don't be silly, Camille. Though they do send me a card at Christmas and for St Valentine's Day."

She was incredulous. "You get a valentine from a dog?" Well, she supposed it was the only valentine he would ever receive, so it was better than nothing. She made a mental note to send him one next February, anonymously of course. She tried to imagine how he would react.

He thought of trying to explain how charities worked at home, with mass-produced cards for anyone sponsoring a person or animal, but decided it was just not worth the effort. Let her think what she would – she clearly had a pretty strange opinion of him already so another apparent eccentricity would really make very little difference.

"Well" he continued, "if I'm to lie in wait for the Chinese, I'd better make a move." He went downstairs, picked up the local paper and installed himself in the lobby. After about twenty minutes the three men appeared. Unlike the previous evening, they were very casually dressed. Peering round his newspaper, Richard attempted to see where they were headed. They went out onto the terrace. Richard got up and casually followed them. Were they making for the taxi rank? Were they off on one of their mysterious journeys? They seemed to be making their way through the gardens and Richard suddenly realised to his considerable surprise that they were heading for the beach. He reached for his mobile.

"Camille, they're going to the beach! What on earth can they be up to?"

"Well, perhaps they're just having a day off, you know – relaxing. Liming, if you like. You'd better come back and change into your beach clothes."

Ten minutes later he was surveying himself doubtfully in the mirror. He was wearing the hated swimming shorts with a T-shirt and a pair of sandals. He spoke with bitter irony.

"All I'm missing is the spotted handkerchief knotted on my head and the socks to wear with the sandals and I will be the perfect specimen of the traditional Englishman on holiday." He picked up one of her little scarves, twisted it and plonked it on his head. "What do you think?"

"Oh Richard, don't push granny in the begonias" she begged.

He stared at her in a mixture of astonishment and exasperation. "Well since my grandmother has been dead for at least ten years and there are no begonias to be seen for miles, I can only assume that this is another of your insane French sayings and, may I say, the craziest yet. Needless to say it makes absolutely no sense at all so do enlighten me."

She grinned saucily. "I knew you'd like it! Faut pas pousser mémé dans les bégonias. It just means, don't overdo it."

"You mean, don't over-egg the pudding."

"If you insist. You can have your pudding but I prefer to stick with granny. Now go and find out what those Chinese are doing on the beach. I'll catch up with you a bit later."

Camille hung about deliberately in the room listening for the tell-tale clatter of the maid trundling her trolley from room to room. Eventually there was a knock at the door. "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, I thought you were out. I'll come back later" apologised the girl.

Camille smiled warmly. "Not at all. Come on in – I shall be leaving in a minute or two."

The girl entered and started to make the bed. She was quick and expert at her work.

"Have you been doing this for long? You're very efficient!" Camille sounded impressed.

"I've been working here for about two years, ma'am. I have to be quick because there are such a lot of rooms to do."

"But you don't do them all yourself? There must be other maids?"

"Yes but we are always short-staffed."

"I would have thought people would be queuing up to work at a big hotel like this. There can't be many opportunities for employment on the island."

"Well, there are quite a few hotels, ma'am, and most of them pay better rates than here. The local girls don't want to work here. Most of the other maids come from Haiti, but they never stay long."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. People say they go to other hotels, but I don't believe that. I think they just get homesick and go back to Haiti."

"What, all of them?"

The girl shrugged. "Well, what other explanation is there? They come here for a while – sometimes it's a few weeks, sometimes only a few days, and then just as they are becoming useful they disappear. And I end up with the extra work!"

"Have you talked to them about it?"

"No, ma'am, they all speak Creole or French – very little English, so it's really hard to have any kind of conversation."

"Well, I mustn't hold you up. What is your name?"

"Marisol, ma'am."

"Well, Marisol, I hope some help turns up for you soon."

"It already has. Three new girls arrived last night. They will be starting work later today."

"Well, that's good news. Now I must go and find my husband on the beach. It was nice talking to you, Marisol."

And with that Camille picked up her beach bag and set off in search of Richard. She found him sitting under an umbrella reading a book.

"I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on the Chinese – how can you do that with your nose stuck in a book?"

"Women aren't the only ones who can multi-task. They're just over there, lying in the sun. It hardly takes Hercule Poirot to keep them in view. You've been a long time, what have you been up to?"

She quickly filled him in. "So we need to watch these new girls and see what happens to them." He nodded in agreement. "But I'm not sure we're going to gain anything by watching the Chinese. They don't exactly look like a bunch of criminal masterminds, do they? In fact, they have been behaving just like a bunch of tourists."

There was movement on the sand. "They're getting up. Oh, they're going for a swim. Wonderful."

Camille dashed off and returned a few minutes later with a beach ball and a pair of canvas shoes.

"Come on, it's time to go swimming." She started to strip off her clothes, revealing a minuscule white bikini underneath.

"Whoa! I'm not going in the sea. The last time I went in the water here – which was at your suggestion, may I remind you – I got spines in my foot and it was bloody agony."

"I know, that's why I bought these. Here, put them on." She held out the beach shoes, adding in an encouraging tone "come on, Richard, you can't be an English holidaymaker and not go in the sea."

He was cornered, and he knew it. He put on the shoes and reluctantly got up. She held out her hand and they ran together towards the water like the couple they weren't, with Richard trying his best not to stare at the few square inches of white cloth which were all that stood between Camille and indecency. She could have brought a one-piece swimsuit, he thought savagely - preferably one with a skirt that came down to the knees. One of those Victorian costumes would just about do the trick.

Once he had more or less got over the shock of Camille's bikini, the sea was actually very pleasant and warm. Not in the least like the bone-chilling, teeth-chattering briny at dear old Clacton. He started to relax a little. Camille bounced around giggling and splashing him, then suddenly lunged and pushed him under. He surfaced spluttering. Camille shrieked with laughter. "Catch!" she called, and hurled the beach ball at him. He caught it and threw it back. Backwards and forwards flew the ball, while all the time they were inching closer to the Chinese trio, who were standing chatting intently to each other. Finally Camille's aim appeared to falter. She hurled the ball over Richard's head so it landed a yard or two beyond the men. Richard launched himself after it, moving as slowly as he dared past the Chinese and straining his ears to catch their conversation.

"Well?" demanded Camille when he returned the ball to her.

"Erm, they were … well, they were talking about where to have lunch."

She huffed. "All that exertion for nothing!"

Richard smiled wryly, and again she thought how much nicer he looked when he allowed himself to relax. "Oh I don't know: I tried out my swimming shorts, you got to wear your bikini, and the ball game was actually quite fun. But I agree, it hasn't exactly got us very far. Well, nothing much seems to be happening here so perhaps it's time we had a chat with Otis."

An hour or so later they were sitting in a café in a quiet area of Port Edward, reporting on progress to date.

"So the plan is that Camille will talk to the Haitian maids and we will both search the rooms of the Chinese. We need to get hold of a key, though, and I'm not quite sure …"

"It's OK, I have that in hand" interrupted Camille, "with a little help from you, Otis, please. And then I'm going to get rather friendly with the delightful manager of the hotel." She pulled a face; this was not something she was looking forward to but she knew she could do it with ease.

"Well, tomorrow I'm booked to take the Chinese over to the east of the island. They've been there several times before but apparently they want to go again, for some reason."

"Why, what's there?"

"Nothing! Just rocky beaches and endless sea."

"Could you take us there this afternoon? So we can see what the attraction is?"

"Sure. Climb aboard."

Otis drove as far east as was possible then stopped the taxi. "This is where I bring them. They walk down to the beach but I've no idea what they do there."

They got out and walked up and down the shoreline. "So what's so special about this place?"

"Absolutely nothing, except that the water is a lot deeper at this end of the island. As you know, around Port Edward the water is comparatively shallow and only fairly small boats can use the harbour."

"Perhaps they are using the deeper water to bring boats closer to the shore so they can take the girls off the island?" suggested Camille.

"Mm, maybe. Anyway, we'd better be getting back. We don't want to be late for drinks with Mr Lemarr Gregson, now do we?"

The manager's suite was tucked away in a corridor behind the main reception area. Richard reluctantly pushed open the door to the small lounge and was dismayed to find that he and Camille were the only guests. Gregson greeted them effusively, his gaze lingering appreciatively on the rather revealing dress that Camille had chosen for the occasion. As Richard had not failed to notice, it was moulded perfectly to her figure.

Drinks were pressed into their hands and the manager was assiduous in re-filling their glasses, particularly Camille's. Little does he know, thought Richard, that she could drink him under the table any day. Not for nothing was Camille the daughter of a bar owner.

"And is this your first trip to the Caribbean, Mr Carmichael?"

"Er … yes. We normally holiday in Europe with the children but this year we decided to try somewhere a little more exotic."

"And your children are not with you?"

"No, they are staying with my … with my wife's family in France."

Camille tapped a few times on her phone and brought up some photos. "Look, here they are!"

"Oh but, dear lady, you cannot possibly be old enough to have such grown up children!"

She laughed insincerely. "You flatter me, Mr Gregson. I admit I was quite young when I got married but I assure you that I am a lot older now!" She laid her hand on his arm, invitingly, and he patted it several times in a less than avuncular manner.

"Well, my dear, I do hope you will enjoy your stay on our lovely island. There are lots of places to explore."

"Ah, but that's the problem. You see, all my husband wants to do is lie on the beach. He's far too lazy to go exploring, aren't you, darling?"

"If you say so, dear. I …er … I just love the sand and the sea. Absolutely. And the sun, of course. Can't get too much of that, eh?"

"So you see …"

"Well, if your husband doesn't object, I should be only too happy to show you round the island myself, Mrs Carmichael. I don't like to boast, but few people know the island as well as I do."

"Oh would you really? That would be wonderful. You don't mind, do you, darling?"

"Oh … no … no, of course not. You go ahead and … you know … enjoy yourself."

She smiled wickedly. "Oh I will!"

Once again, Richard lay wide awake in the big bed. Camille was breathing gently at his side. He was not sure whether she was asleep or not but he hesitated to move for fear of disturbing her. He cursed himself for his inability to sleep, but his mind was too active. He re-ran the happenings of the day, amazed at some of the strange things he had found himself doing. He had rescued a dog and he had actually been in the sea! He had studiously averted his eyes from the white bikini which was currently hanging in the bathroom to dry but could not quite banish the image of Lemarr Gregson pawing at Camille's hand and sliding his hand round her waist to guide her in the direction of the dining-room. He shuddered inwardly. A truly repulsive man. Of course he had complete faith in Camille's ability to look after herself, but even so … He sighed deeply.

"Are you still awake, Richard?"

"Yes, sorry, did I disturb you?"

"No, I wasn't asleep. I'm thirsty. I need a drink."

"Good idea. I think I'll make some tea. Would you like a cup?"

She nodded. Drinking tea in the middle of the night seemed a crazy thing to do but somehow rather appealing. Richard climbed out of bed and busied himself with the kettle.

"Let joy be unconfined, there's fresh milk in the fridge. Here you are."

She sat up and he joined her in the bed. They sipped their tea in silence.

She giggled. "We're just like an old married couple, sitting up in bed and drinking tea!"

He looked at her curiously. "Why aren't you?"

"Why aren't I what?"

"Married."

She was startled. It was so unlike Richard to ask personal questions.

"I could ask you the same question."

"It's not the same. I'm hardly the catch of the year. But you, you're … you're fantastic-looking, you must have had dozens of men running after you."

"You do yourself an injustice. But as for me, I'm in no particular rush." She hesitated, hugged her knees and stared into space for a while before continuing in a low voice. "To be honest, I don't really trust men. Too many of them remind me of my father. Yes, they're fun to be with, but I always ask myself: are they in it for the long run or will they get bored after a few years and start looking elsewhere? There's more to life than having a good time, you know, and I haven't yet met the man I can trust to stay around. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps I don't really know what I'm looking for, like you?"

"Like me?"

"Yes. Don't you remember, I thought Megan Talbot was your type, but you said you didn't know what your 'type' was. I still think the quiet English rose is the most likely candidate for you."

"You're forgetting that Megan Talbot shot her husband. That's hardly an incentive to matrimony! And anyway, it doesn't matter what my mythical 'type' is because I'm not looking."

"Have you given up, then? That's rather sad."

"I haven't 'given up' because I never started! Look, we are not having this conversation. Drink your tea and go to sleep."

She bit her lip in frustration. She knew she would get no further. The door which had opened a little had slammed shut again. She snuggled down in the bed and switched off the light.

"Goodnight, Richard."