THE CLIFF HOUSE

Chris Brookmyre

(Little, Brown, £18.99)

The Cliff House isn’t Brookmyre at his finest, but there’s undeniably something compelling about his dark, modern overhaul of an old Agatha Christie riff.

Seven women, mostly in or approaching middle age, arrive at a big house on the remote island of Clachan Geal for a hen weekend. The bride-to-be is Jen, who has recently sold a profitable business, which is how she can afford to hire this luxury mansion. The women she’s invited are from various phases of her life, and some have never met each other. Jen herself has never met Samira, her future sister-in-law, but was persuaded to ask her along by her fiancé, to give Samira a break from her demanding young twins.

Although it’s Jen’s do, the unofficial guest of honour is Michelle, a childhood friend who has become a major pop star, and they’re all feeling chuffed that she’s seen fit to attend. All, that is, except Helena, the former guitarist in Michelle’s band, who was unceremoniously dumped when the singer made the leap to solo stardom. They haven’t seen each other since, but Jen hopes that this will be a chance for them to make up and be friends. Michelle, though, has been humiliated by the leak of a sex tape, so she’s especially vulnerable and prickly.

Skipping over upmarket fashion buyer Nicolette and Jen’s tennis coach, Kennedy, there’s another potential source of tension in Beattie, the sister of Jen’s first husband, Jason, a bent copper who disappeared some years earlier and was eventually declared dead. Beattie has never believed that her brother was abusive and up to his neck in criminality, and thinks Jen has been blaming her own dodgy dealings on a dead man who isn’t there to defend himself.

The final member of the party (excluding the distractingly hunky chef) is Lauren, property developer and owner of Cliff House, who intends to spend the weekend discreetly in a private apartment while the guests enjoy themselves.

Already, this group is a volatile mix that is bound to flare up. But the weekend will bring far more than tension and frayed tempers – because they all have secrets, and someone is determined to force them into the open. The music playlist piped through the house is made up of songs that seem to be pointed references to their guilts and traumas. Before long, one of the party goes missing and a mystery person called the Reaper tells the women that one of them is not who they think she is, and if she doesn’t confess to her misdeeds then the prisoner will die. Naturally, they’re locked out of the wi-fi, with no mobile phone reception or possibility of escape.

The initial hurdle of getting our heads around seven major characters, along with their backstories and motivations, is overcome before too long, aided by Brookmyre’s smart decision to split them up into pairs for a large portion of the book and let mutual antagonism bring their secrets and grievances to the surface. And, while the seemingly omniscient Reaper plays them off against each other, a succession of twists, reversals and red herrings keeps our attention securely focused. It’s a gripping enough book to be devoured in a couple of sittings, but the longer it goes on the harder it gets to keep disbelief suspended. As tempting as it is to blame it on the tropes of the genre, in the face of so many unlikely twists, revelations and contrivances, credulity is stretched to breaking point, undermining what is otherwise a suspenseful and atmospheric thriller.

ALASTAIR MABBOTT