Peter sat all night, by the window.

Only Rob slept soundly.

George caught the overnight train to Penzance. Watching the lights of Bridgewater station flash past, he tried to convince himself that the journey was necessary. The train was warm and comfortable and nearly empty. He wanted to sleep. Only guilt kept him awake, the sense that he was playing truant, and an overwhelming anxiety for Adam’s safety. He began to read his notes and lists, a ritual gesture in an attempt to relieve his guilt, but he could not concentrate, and fell asleep, still holding his briefcase on his knee.

Alone, in her bed, Sally cried herself to sleep.

Chapter Eleven

In Scilly it was already high summer, too late for flowers, too late to avoid holidaymakers. The helicopter was crowded, there was no pleasure in the flight, none of the usual anticipation at the first sight of the islands. George was in a hurry. He wanted to complete his inquiries in a day, knowing his haste to be as illogical as his journey, and he found in the packed streets, the lingering, scantily dressed people, a target for his anger and frustration. As he reached the harbour a tripper boat was just about to leave for Tresco and he took it, although he had planned to visit St. Agnes first. He could not contemplate waiting. It was hot, even on the water, and the flat, open boat seemed alive with pink-fleshed teenage girls, as a bait box is with maggots.

He had never liked Tresco. There was something obscene about its fertility; there were too many green shiny plants, too much green altogether. The abundance of its vegetation was reflected by the affluence of its residents. It was the rich person‘s island and perhaps it was this rather than the geography of Tresco which coloured his attitude to it. The cloying smell of exotic shrubs and the expensive scent of the women drinking gin in the lounge bar of the pub had become confused in his mind, and he did not know which he disliked the most.

George had already telephoned the hotel, and one of the under-managers was expecting him. The man’s obsequious distaste did nothing to improve his temper.

“As I explained, I want to speak to one of your staff who knew Sally Johnson. You employed her here two seasons ago.”

“Yes, sir, and your reason for wanting to know?” He never asked a question directly, as if it were more delicate to seek information only by inflection, by a gentle wheedling. “ I don’t think you said you were a policeman?”

“It’s a Home Office matter,” Palmer-Jones said, and thought: If he wants to know any more let him ask me directly. But the man seemed satisfied. Perhaps he didn’t want to show his ignorance about the sphere of influence of the Home Office.

“There is one lady who may be able to help—our head waitress, Annie. Your young lady worked under her in the dining room. We have so many casual staff that I’m sure you won’t expect me to remember. But Annie will be able to help you. Please don’t keep her away from her duties for too long. We’re rather busy and it will soon be lunchtime. If you’d like to use my office, I’ll send her to you.”