It even seemed that fate was against him, because the day before he had sprained his wrist in a silly accident at work. The incident had infuriated him. He had slipped down the short flight of steps outside the staff room and had fallen almost at the feet of two giggling fourth-form girls, making, he knew, a ludicrous spectacle. It had been lunchtime and the playground full of children. The other staff had made a great drama of the event and the nurse had insisted that he wear a sling. The sling presented few practical difficulties—although writing was impossible—but he felt in a strange way that it indicated that he was incompetent. In his battle for recognition as the true champion of Rushy Marsh, it was a psychological handicap. He was the director of the North Norfolk Natural History Society which, with the local RSPB group, was presenting the film. The chairman of the RSPB members’ group was a solicitor, a fat, toad-like, conceited man who would want to take charge of the proceedings, run the show, and Cranshaw felt that the sling would give the man the excuse.

Cranshaw knew that he had been indispensable to the film crew. He had helped to set up many of the shots, had carried heavy equipment to the hides while the fat solicitor sat in his warm car and muttered about a heart complaint. But he knew too that he could not match the solicitor’s ability to organize events and words.

He left school early so that he could dress and be at the hall before anyone else arrived. He wanted to make his presence felt and to be there to welcome the important guests. He had planned to leave soup and sandwiches for his mother’s supper, and to do without a meal himself. He had thought that she would be happy to watch the television until he returned, but his mother had other plans. He had not realized that she was aware of anything unusual, but she wanted to go with him. When he arrived home she was dressed in her best clothes, her face was a mask of make-up, and the smell of her perfume sickened him as he approached her to impress on her that she could not go with him.

It took an hour of persuasion and considerable energy to resist her whining and her tears. She had set her mind on it. He said that she was not well enough, that the hall would be cold, that he would be worried about her. He forced himself to appear concerned and solicitous and at last she responded and allowed herself to be settled on the sofa with tea and chocolates. When he finally left the house alone he was exhausted, but he still found time to go to the Windmill to check the arrangements for the party. Nothing could be left to chance.

Tina and Rob met Peter Littleton on the marsh in the middle of the afternoon as they had arranged. It was a still, damp day, grey and colourless. There was no movement. Even the birds appeared part of a black and white photograph and the marsh seemed deserted of people. They sat in one of the hides talking for a while, then separated. Tina wanted to be alone to look for Adam and went off towards the shingle bank and the Windmill. Rob said that he wanted a long walk, and that he would go right along the beach towards Skeffingham. He did not ask Peter to go with him and walked away very quickly with long, easy strides, and Peter saw his silhouette on the bank after an almost unbelievably short space of time. Peter felt quite relaxed and contented, and sat dreaming for a while in the hide. He had a leisurely stroll around the marsh, just for appearances sake, then returned to the cottage for tea and hot buttered toast.