“Tom French must have left this way the morning he was killed,” Molly said as she walked out on to the gravelled drive. They both knew that she was trying to stimulate his interest, to lift his mood. “According to your report the last person to see him alive was the night porter, and surely be would be sitting at the reception desk. Which way would he have gone from here?”

George considered, involved despite himself. “Towards the marsh, I should think. Most birders usually start at the marsh. So he would go straight along the drive to the road, and then left towards the village.”

“Where do you think that he was killed?”

“I just don’t know. I don’t think that the police know. It’s a very large area for them to search properly. It was so foggy that he could have been murdered right by the side of the road without too much risk. I’m more interested in the problem of moving the body to the marsh. I wonder why it was moved. Perhaps because it was in a place where it would be immediately seen once the fog lifted.”

They had already left the hotel behind them. They took the path which Tom must have taken, along the drive with its avenue of trees, towards the road. It was still hot but the heat was oppressive and over the sea there was a mountain of thunder clouds.

“Mister. Hey, Mister.”

Even from the call they knew that the man who followed them was not quite normal. It was a wild voice, childishly excited. They turned to see a tall, uncoordinated man of indeterminate age, who was running. His feet scattered the gravel on the path, his loose jacket flapped open. As he reached them he grinned intimately. His teeth were grey and badly spaced.

“Hello, I’m Terry.” He held out a large hand to them, then dropped it uncertainly when there was no immediate response.

“Hello Terry,” said Molly kindly. He rewarded her with another grin.

“Nice lady,” he said. He patted her arm, then turned to George and asked automatically:

“Are you my friend?”

“I don’t think that I know you well enough to be your friend.” George was irritable. He felt that the situation was ridiculous and that he needed to assert his control.

“Don’t be so pompous, George. Of course he’s your friend, Terry.”

Molly smiled again at the man, who had turned hurt from George, understanding the tone if not the words.

“I haven’t got no friends here any more. Not since they killed Tommy.”

“Terry,” George said quickly before the man could walk away, “was Tommy your friend?” He spoke kindly, as he would have done to a child.

The man nodded and shuffled uncomfortably. In his transparent face they saw grief, but they only had time to see and to respond to this before it disappeared and his mood changed.

“Have you got any fags?” he asked hopefully, then, with a leer at Molly: “Are you going to buy me a present?”