The pub was crowded with celebrating birdwatchers. The path to the bar was an obstacle race of tripods and telescopes, cross-legged teenagers and pints of beer. In a cramped corner a darts match was being played between the Scarsea team and the best of the twitchers. An ancient jukebox played muffled Rolling Stones.

George and Molly sat in the window seat, separated from the rest of the room by the noise and the smoke. They could not have been overheard.

“So Bernard Cranshaw has been taking pot shots at Pete Littleton?”

“I suppose it was him. The description sounds right.”

“I’ve still not worked out how Bernard knew that Tom had a conviction for a drug offence. Tom seems to have made every effort to keep it quiet. I wouldn’t have thought that Bernard would have been friendly with the types at the White Lodge. I should have mentioned his name to Dennis.”

Molly looked out at the crowded room, picking up odd phrases of shouted conversation. Involved as she was in her discussion with George she was still interested in what was going on around her.

George was talking again, and she had to concentrate to hear what he was saying.

“So you talked to Rob Earl about the Bristol job.” She repeated his words to confirm that she had heard him correctly.

George was impatient. “ Yes, I did. He said that the only reason he didn’t mention it was that his pride was hurt.”

“That certainly sounds like Rob.”

“I suppose so. But it was pretty silly not to tell me before.”

They sat in silence, drinking. George seemed deep in thought and Molly’s attention was once more drawn to the birdwatchers. A group of teenagers sat in a tight circle on the floor. From the scraps of conversation she knew that they were talking about birds.

“But how did you know that it was bimaculated lark, Adam?” asked a dark-haired boy with a painfully thin moustache. “Did it hit you straight away?”

Molly closely studied the boy who replied. On the beach she had been aware of him, but she had not looked at him. This was Anderson’s boy, whose distress at Tom’s death had caused the investigation to take place. George had said that he was lonely, loveless. Tina would be good for him. She would bully him into happiness. Certainly he seemed animated enough as he answered.

“It was obvious really. It either had to be bimaculated or calandra, and once I got a good view of it …” and there followed a list of intricate plumage details. Molly lost interest and turned her attention elsewhere, thinking fleetingly that at least birdwatching compensated a little for any problems at home.

George was wishing that he could relax as he usually did on an occasion such as this. It had always been like this when he was working. There had always been the irritation, the tension and the constructive bad temper, but even in the middle of an investigation he had been able to relax by birdwatching. Now he was denied even that. With a sudden childish anger at his discomfort, because he was not experiencing his usual high after a tick, he wondered whether he should give it all up: not only the investigation into Tom’s death, but birdwatching, twitching. It was an obsession. The depth of his feeling as they had driven to Scardrift had upset him. He was too mature to lose control in that way. He was vainly trying to contemplate a life in which birdwatching had no place when he saw Adam Anderson diffidently pushing through the crowd towards him. He had been to the bar and was carrying a drink each for Molly and George. He blushed as he set the drinks on the table for them, obviously uncertain whether his gesture of generosity would be regarded as impertinence.