Suddenly the crake was in the open, flying. It was so close to the hide that they could not focus their binoculars onto it. The bird flew around the pond once more, and they thought it would settle again at the edge of the water to give more prolonged views, but it changed direction and disappeared very quickly in the heat haze. Greg Franks must have tripped in the reed bed, because when he stood up to wave his arms triumphantly at them, he was dripping wet, and his hair straggled like seaweed across his face.

When he returned to the hide, George was surprised by the reception the boy received. The bird had been frightened off by an act of stupid exhibitionism, yet the watchers were indulgent, as if George were a spoilt but gifted child who should be allowed his own way. They had, of course, obtained brilliant if fleeting views of the bird. The birdwatchers who arrived later in the afternoon were less understanding and threatened unimaginable tortures to Franks if they should catch him.

In the following year George Palmer-Jones saw Greg Franks several times. He was on Scilly for most of October and seemed suddenly to be at every new bird. Recently, George saw, he had taken to driving a maroon Mercedes with American numberplates.

He usually had a group of friends with him—wild young men like himself and pretty girls. There were rumours that he made his money through drug dealing or theft or some vaguely illegal deals with friends in the city. He always seemed to have money, and he was always one of the first to arrive at a rarity, but no one seemed too concerned about what lay behind his apparent affluence. Birdwatching is full of eccentrics. They were more interested in his list.

The subject of Greg Franks’ list was brought up wherever the more avid twitchers gathered together. It must be immense, they said. Now he went for everything. Surely it must rival the older twitchers who had those blockers from the sixties. Surely by now it must be as big as Roger Pym’s.

George was not one of those for whom the speculation about lists is as important as seeing the birds themselves, and when he and his wife were hired by Mr. and Mrs. Franks to trace their missing son, he made no connection with Greg. It was more than a year after the visit to Holywell Pond. The first contact was by phone, and George took the call.

“Yes,” he said. “ Palmer-Jones.”

The woman on the other end of the phone had a Bristol accent, and her voice was breathless and shaking with nerves.

“That is Mr. Palmer-Jones, the private detective?” she insisted.

He hated the term, but she was so anxious already that he only said, “How can I help you?”