He was walking out against the wind. It was as if nothing else existed—not the mainland where the people at work hardly recognized that there was a storm, certainly did not know which way the wind was blowing, nor the island ahead of him. Nothing mattered but the effort of walking against the wind, the sand stinging at his eyes and the surface water blowing around his boots. He stopped once, on his way across, to catch his breath. He turned his back to the wind, almost leant against it to rest. Then he saw the two navy-blue Land Rovers leaving the shore. They were not driven slowly across the sand, as John would have driven the observatory Land Rover to save it from the salt spray, in a fruitless attempt to slow down the inevitable corrosion, but frantically, at speed. He realized that something must be wrong on the island. He turned back into the wind and continued his walk.

As he walked through the gates into the observatory compound John saw Paul Derbyshire coming up the path from the south of the island. It was so unusual to see the doctor away from the common-room fire that he almost waited, to find out what had prompted the older man to face the gale. Then he decided that he could not face explaining why he was not seawatching and he hurried in to the ringing room and the telephone. There he hesitated, unsure whether he should make a 999 call or phone straight to the police station in Gillicombe. He was quite certain that Charlie was dead, so there was little urgency, and he decided on the police station. Then he dialled, and he noticed with surprise that his hands were shaking. He wished that George had already arrived. The policeman who answered was slow and calm, and took his name and address, then passed him to another officer, whose name and rank were given, but immediately forgotten.

Superintendent Savage was at home. It was his weekend off. He had slept late and was nursing an unobtrusive hangover. He had spent the night before in the Catholic Club. It was the only place in Gillicombe where he felt really at ease. Most of the members were incomers, Irish, or Mersey-siders like himself. His wife never complained about his evenings out. Her lack of complaint was a kind of repayment. He had moved to Devon because of her. She had always been emotionally frail and had found it impossible to live with his work in Liverpool. If he was late home from a shift he would find her a neurotic wreck, peering through the curtains, waiting for the sound of his car. She had settled well in Gillicombe, and was happy. Despite his boredom he had never regretted the move and wished that she could forget his sacrifice, would stop being quite so grateful. They were having breakfast together when the telephone went. They had no children, and it was a calm, unhurried meal. Mary answered the telephone.