He felt more confident, ready to face the other island residents. At lunch he had spoken generally, asked some harmless questions, and so had encouraged a conversation about the murder. Now it was time to be more direct. He walked through the Wendy House garden towards the track. The mud was very soft there, a muddle of footprints. Almost hidden by the mud was a small bird bag. Automatically he bent to pick it up. It was beautifully hand-stitched and George saw with amusement that the initials P.D. were embroidered on the edge. How typical of the doctor to have his own personalized bird bags.

He saw that there was a small group of birds on the elder bush over which the heligoland trap had been built. They were goldfinches, bright as clowns, primary painted in red and yellow. He walked into the mouth of the net, making an absurd clucking noise to flush them into the box, caught three and was ridiculously pleased. He felt in his pocket for bird bags, found only two, and put the third finch in the doctor’s bag. Back at the observatory, he found John in the generator shed, splitting firewood with a furious, mindless desperation.

“I’ve just caught these,” George said. “I suppose there’s no chance of ringing them? Is all the ringing gear in the bird room with the policemen?”

“No. I brought all that I thought I might need out here.” John pointed to a workbench made of driftwood, where rings, pliers, a measure and scales had been laid. In the shed the sound of the wind and water outside seemed very loud. There was a smell of wood sand oil. In the corner the generator stood. It was very big and faintly menacing. John wiped his hands on his stained cord trousers. “ Do you want to ring them?”

“I wouldn’t mind. I need the practice.”

George took the first bird from its bag, held it in the approved manner with its head between his second and third fingers, fitted the ring into the pliers, then carefully closed it around the bird’s leg. He weighed it, measured its wing, then took it to the shed door and let it go.

“What do you think of the policeman?” John asked.

“I don’t know,” George answered truthfully. “How did you find him?”

“Intimidating. I suppose that he must be good at his job. I wouldn’t like to cross him. He fired questions at me so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to think. I suppose that’s part of his technique, but there are some things that you genuinely can’t remember, or that you need time to sort out in your mind.”

“Was there anything that you wanted to tell him, but didn’t get a chance to?”

“Why do you ask?”

George was holding the second bird, smoothing the feathers with his long fingers so that he could measure the wing.

“Savage recognized me,” he said. “You know that I was working for the Home Office before I retired. I had some dealings with the police then. He’s asked me to help him, unofficially. He hopes that I’ll be able to give him some background information.” He fitted the ring, released the bird. “ Savage played me a tape of your conversation with him.”