Rob Earl lay on his back, his battered telescope leaning against his leg. He focused automatically on the bird and tried to concentrate on it. But he was thinking of the letter he had received that morning, offering him the opportunity of working for a travel company leading birdwatching tours to South America, Africa and even twice a year to Siberia and Mongolia. His research would be completed by the summer. He desperately wanted the job. But now he felt uneasy, a little frightened of accepting. For perhaps the first time in his life he wondered if he should do just what he wanted to do.

With an envy that approached hatred Tina looked at the metal ring on the bird’s leg.

George Palmer-Jones had not expected to see the bird. He was ashamed of his flight from the hotel, from the frustration and claustrophobia of his investigation. He did not deserve to see the bird. Nothing else was going right for him. But having made the decision to go for it, he would play the game according to the rules. He would pretend that he had a chance of seeing it. And all the time he knew that he was deceiving himself, playing double bluff with fate, because only if he convinced himself that he would not see it would he have any chance at all of its still being there. Yet, with a certainty that was not only self-justification, he felt that the answer to all his questions about Tom, and why he died, was not at the White Lodge, but where birdwatchers were. He drove as fast as the Morris Minor would go through the Lincolnshire flatness, over the magic, apparently endless Humber Bridge, through city docklands, to the open windy land beyond. That part of the country had the feel of an island to him. The area had a definite boundary, the locals knew everyone who lived there and there was a lot of sky. He was very tense now. His mind was concentrated on pushing away any speculation that he might see the bird, on preparing himself for the inevitable disappointment.

Even when they arrived, after having paid the extortionate parking fee to the assistant warden, who leapt out of the observatory to stop them, and had driven up the sandy track and parked the car, he would not let himself believe that the bird was still there. Even when he saw the organized crowd of people, they were so relaxed, so apparently indifferent about the bird they studied, that his disappointment was real, not manufactured. And then he was standing with them, and somebody was pointing out the bird, and the tension suddenly left him.

The hunter had found his prey. It was the most wonderful feeling, the elation that followed the sight of a new bird, especially a bird as good as this. How much greater the satisfaction, he thought, to have found it. If I had found a bird like that I would be high as a kite for days, I would be crazy with the pleasure of it. I would be insane.