Inspector Thomas wanted a quiet week in his Cornwall cottage. Instead, a dawn phone call from his Chief Superintendent sends him by helicopter into the teeth of an Atlantic storm, bound for a private island where Sir Alfred Marsh is holding a gathering of old enemies. The island is cut off before Thomas even sets foot on the lighthouse. No boats, no flights, no way back until the weather breaks. By the time he reaches the tower, Sir Alfred is dead -- shot in the lantern room of a lighthouse that kept turning until the moment of the murder. Seven guests, six survivors, and one killer sealed in with them. The guests have motive to spare. Sir Alfred was a man who made enemies the way other men made friends, and each of them has a reckoning with him. Helen still believes her brother died for a crime he never committed. Dr. Finch gave the testimony that condemned him. The others carry quieter reasons.
As Thomas works the locked tower, the stopped light, and a missing weapon, he must separate the harmless from the guilty while the storm keeps everyone close and no one safe. On an island this small, the truth is the only thing that will not stay buried.
The helicopter bucked violently, a tin can tossed by an angry giant. Inspector Thomas pressed his forehead against the cold, rain-streaked glass, watching the grey expanse of the Atlantic churn two hundred feet below. The sea wasn't just rough; it was furious, whitecaps tearing across the surface like stitches on a wound. Sheets of rain swept across the porthole in horizontal streaks, blurring the world into a watercolour of misery-all greys and blues and the bruised purple of gathering storm clouds. "Last chance to turn back, Inspector " the pilot shouted over the engine's deafening roar. He had to lean close, his breath smelling of coffee and cigarettes. "Weather's closing in faster than forecast. Once we're over the island, there's no guarantee I can get back to pick you up if this gets worse " Thomas shook his head, the motion sharp. "Just get me there.