Afterwards he admitted that it was ridiculous to go into the lighthouse alone. He should have waited for the others. Once inside, there was no escape for the murderer. But in his mind he held the image of the swan preparing to fly, upright, head to the sky, wings beating, and then the shot in the chest. He was angry and the anger clouded his judgement. And stronger than anger was curiosity. He believed that he knew who was hiding in the lighthouse, but he wanted to be certain. The impatience to complete the investigation, which had been growing all day, reached a climax. He wanted that certainty now.

The door at the bottom of the tower had been padlocked. The padlock was open, hooked into a metal ring on the door frame, and the door banged against it. He wished he had a torch, but there must have been some emergency lighting in the room at the top, because a dim light fell down the spiral stone steps. George was not frightened. He had a confidence, an arrogance, that the murderer at the top of the steps would want to speak to him. If they could sit together and talk without interruption, George was certain that he would convince the person to give him the shotgun and go with him peacefully.

George shouted up the tower. He tried to keep his voice calm and friendly, but the echo of the stone tower distorted it. There was no reply.

“I’m coming up,” George called. He really thought he had nothing to fear, but he did feel tense, excited. He remembered playing hide and seek as a boy in the gloomy house where he had lived with his father, and there was the same racing heart, the same exhilaration. He no longer felt old, although the steps were steep and the tower was high. The light was stronger and the shadows on the steps were more dramatic, but George did not hesitate.

“I’m coming in now,” he said. “ There’s no need to be afraid.”

There was a door into the room where the lightkeepers must have stayed when they were on watch. It was slightly open.

“I’m coming in now,” he repeated.

He pushed the door wider with one hand, but he did not go in. In the round room there was nothing. No furniture and no murderer. A short flight of metal stairs led to a balcony where the lenses and enormous stack of batteries were. He could not see the complete circle of the balcony, just a small segment through the open door.

“Why don’t you come down?” he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”

He stepped into the room. There was the rustle of clothes behind him. Hiding behind the door, George thought, but he had no time to move. As he lost consciousness there was a feeling of astonishment that he could have been so foolish.