It was unusual for him to stay inside when it was light, even in weather like this. His office in the call centre was small and cramped and had no natural light. He joked with his colleagues that it was like being banged up in prison. On holiday he needed to be in the open air. Otherwise he felt he might just as well be working.

He found Hugh reading a trip report in the common room. The younger man held out the brochure. There were glossy photos of jungles and mountains, improbably coloured birds. ‘I’m checking out the possibilities for work,’ he said. ‘I might apply to run this one. I quite fancy getting paid to spend three weeks in Argentina. I still need a few endemics there.’

Dougie wished he had the younger man’s confidence. Hugh assumed the job would be his if he wanted it and that he’d do well at it. Perhaps that was what going to a smart school did for you.

‘I’m going to the south end. Do you want to come?’ Dougie liked company when he was birdwatching. It was part of the pleasure, the gossip as you walked down the island. He’d never been in a gang at school; his birdwatching friends had come from the more affluent parts of his town. Besides, he thought, conversation might distract him from thoughts of Angela.

Hugh tore his attention from the pictures. ‘Nah, it’s been westerly for weeks. It’s a waste of time. I should have gone out on the plane when I had the chance.’ He flashed the old smile that for a moment made Dougie want to lash out. Hugh of all people should show more respect. For this island and the craft of birding. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to miss the excitement. You don’t get involved in a murder every day.’

Dougie supposed he meant the policeman poking around in the bird room – although the door was shut Dougie had heard movement inside and soft voices when he went to put on his boots – and Angela’s body being carried away. That was excitement he could do without. Hugh’s attitude was ghoulish, weird.

Walking down the road towards the crofts Dougie saw nothing but a couple of meadow pipits being blown over the double dyke trap and a hooded crow close to the cliff, but he felt his mood lighten. He caught a glimpse of a figure on the hill and for a second assumed it was Angela, not imagining a ghost, but having forgotten she was dead. That was how she’d moved, purposeful as if she could carry on at the same pace all day. Immediately he knew his mind was playing tricks on him. This must be Ben Catchpole, doing the hill survey because Angela wasn’t there. In waterproofs most of the birders looked the same. He raised his binoculars to check, but the figure had disappeared over the horizon.

Dougie knew he was unfit. He lived on takeaway food and drank too much beer. In his local pub on quiz nights he could believe he had friends who weren’t birders. Weekends were spent twitching: long trips in the car with his birding mates, a brief burst of activity to see the rarity, then nights on the sofa, sharing more beer, more stories of great twitches in the past. Though often these days he spent the evenings alone with his laptop on his knee catching up on Surfbirds or writing his blog. There weren’t so many single men birding now and the married ones sloped back to their wives and their kiddies as soon as the twitch was over, with excuses for being late and promises to be more considerate in the future. Times like that Dougie was pleased he still lived alone.