“Yes,” she said, “because I was very upset, and I called after him to stay with me, but he didn’t take any notice. He went out as soon as Jack Benn had driven off with the doctor.”

“And do you know what time that was?”

“I was just going to tell you. It was eight o’clock; because I heard it on the radio. I had the radio on the local station for the news.”

The radio. So the voices—which Jack had heard later in the morning, when he parked his car outside the Cranshaws’, could have come from the radio. But eight o’clock was too late. If Terry had been at work on time that Saturday, and had been telling the truth about seeing Tom, he had been dead before eight o’clock.

George stood up, grateful that he had extracted the information he needed and that now he could escape.

“I’m sorry to have missed Bernard,” he said. “I’ll have to call round to see him again.”

“He’ll want you to get in touch if it’s about a bird,” she said: “He gets cross if I don’t pass on messages about birds.” She was suddenly efficient. “I’ve got the name and address of his school, with the telephone number. He wrote it down in case I needed him urgently. I’ll get it for you.”

It was tucked behind the big photograph of Margaret as a young girl. She held it out to him with one of her smiles.

“You keep it,” she said. “ Bernard can write it out again for me tonight.”

He did not look at the paper until he was out of the house. The smell of the damp marsh and the chemical factory seemed healthy compared with the atmosphere inside. The name, address and phone number of Skeffingham Comprehensive School were written in sprawling capitals, which George had seen before. He knew now why Sally Johnson had received no more anonymous letters. He had thought that the writing in the letters had been disguised, but it was the normal, if unconventional, writing of Bernard Cranshaw—who had sprained his wrist, was wearing a sling and could not write.

When George and Molly had started out into the village that morning the three young people had still been asleep, lying like big, blue slugs in their sleeping bags. George almost decided to go to Peter’s cottage as he walked to the village. He was impatient to confirm his theory about Peter. But the list which he had made the night before still controlled his movements. He had a compulsive belief in lists. And Peter would sleep for hours.

He had arranged to meet Molly at Ella’s home, and when he arrived all three—Molly, Ella and Adam—were sitting at the kitchen table, eating a lunch of bread, cheese and salad. Adam still looked very tired and white. The weight of his long hair seemed to drag the skin tight across his forehead and around his eyes, so that the eyes themselves seemed very prominent, like clear glass marbles. Ella was still being solicitous and protective. George sat with them at the table, but shook his head when Ella offered him a plate.