“I was faithful for ages, honestly. It seemed a part of the bargain. But then I met a girl who was very different from Barbara. Not specially beautiful, or even clever, but she was kind and I could talk to her. And talking led to other things. She seemed to care for me. I suppose I was in love with her. Then Barbara found out and played a big scene. The girl left the island quite suddenly, before I could decide what to do. Perhaps she wasn’t as serious as I’d thought. Barbara magnanimously forgave me and we settled back into married life, although it was never quite the same. Last October I was thirty. I felt that my life was slipping away in compromise so I got very drunk, hit her father on the nose, wrote “ Barbara Littleton is a whore” in red paint on the outside wall of the post office and drove the new tractor into the harbour. Since then I’ve been sorting out the divorce. And as from today, I’m a free man.”

“So what are you going to do now?” asked George, amused and intrigued.

“I’ve been accepted to do a postgraduate teaching year at the University of East Anglia.”

George found it difficult to picture this apparent madman as a teacher, but Peter seemed quite serious.

“Until the course starts in the autumn, I think I’ll become a twitcher,” Peter continued. He grinned. “ I’m not badly off. Barbara’s family are quite wealthy and I came under a lot of financial pressure not to mention Nancy at the divorce hearing, or to spread any rumours on the island. I reluctantly allowed myself to be persuaded.

“I thought that I’d try to find somewhere to rent in Rushy. I hear it’s turning up some good stuff these days. Is old Tom still up there?”

Then the humour disappeared and Rob quietly and undramatically told what had happened, and despite the tick they left the pub before last orders had been called.

Chapter Three

The probation office in Skeffingham was next to the police station, in the same tall, red-brick building, and the waiting room there, with its smell of stale cigarette smoke and sweat, reminded him of a police cell. The receptionist was surprised to see him, but not very surprised: criminals come in all classes—or perhaps, she thought, he was a product of the divorce court. A little old to be worrying about access or custody, but possibly hoping for reconciliation. She was-sympathetic, automatically polite, apologetic as she showed him into the bare waiting room. As he waited George could see the plump, middle-aged receptionist watching him and wondering. She spoke on the telephone, then came out of her office, still polite, still curious.

“Miss Kenning has someone with her just now, but she says that she can see you in ten minutes if you don’t mind waiting.”

He thanked her and watched her back to her typewriter. His friends in the Home Office had helped him to trace Jennifer Kenning to the small area office in Skeffingham, and had given him a brief description of her. She was twenty-six and had been qualified for two years. Her confirmation report had said that she was “very competent and enthusiastic, but with a tendency to over-relate to clients.” It had seemed likely that she was the Jenny in whom Tom had decided to confide.