“How did your husband get on with Mr. Franks?” she asked.

Jane shrugged. “ They were friendly rivals,” she said. “Roger has been birdwatching for a long time. He’s seen a lot of birds in Britain. The younger twitchers were a little envious. Greg liked to think he was catching Roger up.”

“Did you talk to Greg Franks after he went to sleep off his seasickness yesterday on the Jessie Ellen?” Claire asked.

“No,” Jane said. “ Of course not. What on earth would I have to talk to him about?”

Then she sat in a calm, detached way smoking a cigarette and waited for the inspector to tell her that the interview was at an end.

When she had spoken to Jane Pym, the inspector sent Berry to the car to radio the police station. Her superintendent had promised to contact Customs & Excise and the Drugs Squad to see if they had information on Greg Franks. But now, too, there should be more details on the Louis Rosco case. Claire did not have much faith in her superintendent’s abilities as an investigator but acknowledged that he was a good liaison man. He seemed to have friends in every force in the country. She never asked how he managed it but was willing to use the information he provided.

Berry walked through the house and out into bright sunlight. Swallows were gathering in clouds in the valley and perching on the telegraph wire along the road preparing for the migration south. On a white bench outside the cottage Rose Pengelly was sitting, barefoot and brown legged, like a Gypsy, with the baby at her breast. Unembarrassed, he continued towards the car. In the house the phone rang. Berry thought it might be the superintendent and turned back to answer it, but Roger Pym had already picked up the receiver, and Berry heard him say to no one in particular, “It’s Tim Robertson from Madeira.”

When the sergeant returned to the dining room, he was carrying coffee in big earthenware mugs shaped like flowerpots.

“Miss Pengelly thought we might like this,” he said.

“Well?” the inspector demanded, refusing to be distracted, irritated by his lack of urgency, by the time he had been away. “What have we got?”

“Greg Franks was well known to the customs investigations department,” he said, spooning brown sugar in his coffee. “ They’re a bit upset. They were all set up for a big operation. They hoped he might lead them to the organiser. He was certainly a courier, they say. Probably a small-time dealer, too. They’re interested, of course, in all his contacts and would like to see his diary or address book if we find one.”