He phoned Sally in Fenquay, explaining that he would not be across to see her. He had tried to be tender, sympathetic, but she had been off-hand and indifferent. He had considered cancelling his plans, because she frightened him more when she was distant and cold than when she was hysterical. When she had taken the overdose, she had been deadly, icily calm. But even while he thought about taking the bus to Fenquay, staying the night in the cottage with Sally and Barnaby, he knew that he would not do it. Because the wind was blowing from the south-east, and the night migrants reaching the coast at dawn would meet and be grounded by a bank of fog, and there was nothing more compelling than spring migration in perfect conditions.

The night porter saw Tommy leave the hotel at five forty on the Saturday morning. It was very foggy, and although the porter was watching, he could not see which way Tom went once he left the building. He was a nervous man, and was more worried about his drive home in the fog than about Tom’s destination. Later he was to tell the police that Tom waved and called to him, but did not mention that he planned to meet anyone. He guessed that Tom was going bird watching because he was wearing wellingtons and carried binoculars and telescope. He did not know that under his anorak Tom was wearing a thick, striped sweater, not really suitable for birding, which he always wore on special occasions, because Sally had knitted it and he thought that it was lucky. The porter was the last person to admit to seeing Tom alive.

When Dennis called for Tom at seven forty-five, the room was empty. He swaggered swearing into the kitchen, and shouted to Terry (mentally subnormal, brought to the hotel from a hospital ten years before and still paid the same wages as when he started):

“You’ll have to start on the teas. Tom’s still in Fenquay.” Terry grinned dutifully. Despite himself, Dennis smiled back with a vague, rude, envious gesture.

When the Fenquay bus went past at eight thirty and Tom was not on it, Dennis shouted to one of the Spanish chambermaids to phone Sally’s home to find out where he was. He had been late before. He was too soft on that temperamental bitch. The girl returned to say that there was no reply. When Mr. Yates, the manager, discovered—despite the kitchen staff’s attempt to hide the fact—that Tom had not turned in to work, he was not surprised. Casual staff were so unreliable.

There were no birdwatchers in the Blue Anchors lunch-time. They were too busy counting the blue throats and wrynecks, the red-backs shrikes, too busy peering through the fog, checking every willow warbler trying to turn it into a bonelli’s, every whitethroat in the hope that it would become a spectacled warbler. Only the landlord missed Tom. It was unusual for him not to come in for a pint before going out on the marsh.