Although the tide had started to ebb the wind was still strong. They had to turn their heads away from it to speak, and then they had to shout. They were all wearing wellingtons, and on the low, rocky part of the island just south of the hide the water was only calf deep. They waded through. Further out to sea white spindrift was blown across the surface. Nick and Mark stood aside to let John climb the ladder to the hide first because they knew that the door would be locked. John balanced at the top of the sturdy ladder, reached in the deep pocket of his oiled jacket for the key, then tried to fiddle it into the big, brass padlock.

“Damn,” he said at last. “ It was open all the time. I must have forgotten to lock it last time I was here.”

He pulled open the door and climbed in. Despite the light from the door he could not see at first. The glare from the sea had been bright and his eyes had not adjusted to the darkness. He was at home in the hide though, and felt without hesitation for the stiff and rusty bolts of the big, front flap, and pushed it open. The light and a fine wave of sea spray seemed to blow in together. He wiped the water from his eyes. It’s like being a part of the sea, he thought. This is what they mean by being at one with nature. He felt intensely emotional, close to tears, and the experience had little to do with the prospect of leaving the island. Then he smiled at his romanticism and thought that they would have to sit well away from the flap, or their binoculars would be covered with spray and quite useless. By now the others were coming up the ladder. He turned to speak to them, to share with them his excitement, and he saw then the body in the corner. Lying on his back on the floor, his legs still hooked round the bench seat, was Charlie. His eyes, pale and blank as when they had last met, stared at John. Charlie was unmistakably dead.

At first John only felt the panic of responsibility. What should I do? Should I call a doctor, or an ambulance? An ambulance would never get here. Should I try to move the body? Because he felt that he should, he felt for a pulse, listened for a heart beat, but he was quite sure before then that Charlie was dead. It was Nick, standing on the ladder, looking into the hide, and watching in bewildered silence, who saw the thin, green nylon rope, like a trickle of green blood around Charlie’s neck, so it was Nick who forced him to accept the reality of the scene. His voice was high-pitched with hysteria.

“Somebody’s killed Charlie Todd,” he said, and in the enclosed space of the hide it seemed to John that he was shouting.