“I’ll see you later perhaps.”

Palmer-Jones drained his coffee quickly. He felt impatient, not just to speak to Pamela, but to be outside, away from the other people in the room.

“I’m just going up to the Beacon for a blow,” he said. “ Does anyone want to join me?”

“Yes,” Pamela Marshall said quickly. “ Yes, it does seem very stuffy in here. I’ll come if you don’t mind.”

She was walking across the room towards the lobby to fetch her coat when Paul Derbyshire said: “Would you be kind enough to bring my mackintosh with you, my dear? I believe that I’ll come with you.”

She stopped, surprised. “You,” she said almost rudely. “ But you never go out if you can help it.”

“Oh come, my dear, you’re exaggerating.” His voice was spiteful. “But of course, if I’m intruding …”

“No,” she said sharply. “ You’re not intruding.”

They went out together, and although George Palmer-Jones and Pamela Marshall walked briskly the doctor managed to keep up with them. He had a strange way of walking with his hips thrust forward and his shoulders back, so it seemed that he must eventually tilt backwards and fall, but despite his reputation for laziness he showed no sign of being out of breath. He stood with them on the Beacon and the wind blew his long white hair away from his face and there was no trace of his previous tension. He seemed to be aware that they wanted to be alone, and to enjoy their discomfort at his presence.

George Palmer-Jones returned to the observatory without having had the opportunity of talking to Pamela Marshall. He could perhaps have made more effort to do so, but his walk had relaxed him. It did not now seem so important. There would be time enough on the following day.

Chapter Eight

When Superintendent Savage reached the mainland it was almost dark, but a small group of men still waited. They were reporters who stared across the estuary as if they would get their story just by looking at the island. He made a brief statement of the facts, refused to speculate about motive or suspects. The interview took place through the Land Rover window, and soon he ordered Connibear to drive on, leaving the men there in a useless bedraggled heap, like driftwood washed up by the tide.

The police station was brightly lit and cheerful. It had been built in the sixties, was square and concrete. Connibear opened the door to the central heating, the smell of cigarettes, disinfectant and fried food from the canteen. The smell was so familiar that he did not usually notice it. But the day had seemed very long and he felt that he had returned from a foreign country. Savage was not bothered by such fancies. He went straight to his office and sent Connibear to check what had been happening in their absence, and to bring coffee and food. Then he phoned his wife. When he told her that he would be late, she was concerned that he might be tired, told him to look after himself, but there was none of the old panic of the Merseyside life. She had been deceived into believing that things really were different here. Connibear knocked just as he put the phone down, came in backwards, pushing the door with his body so that his hands were free to carry a tray with two mugs of coffee, a pile of bacon sandwiches and a file.