He thought of Greg Franks’ death with a celebratory joy. His problem was in trying to keep the emotion under control. He managed it by involving himself in Roger Pym’s research into the possible identification of the petrel and channelled his excitement into that. Yet all the time he was watching Rose through the living room window, so in touch with her that he believed he could smell her hair and hear the peaceful breathing of the baby on her knee.

When Gerald Matthews was called into the dining room, he was aggressive and hostile. It was not exactly a performance—more a welcome opportunity to release the tension which had been building up all day. The inspector did not read too much into his reaction. He was the sort of man who would pride himself on complaining, on standing up for his rights. He was pale, slight, ageless. He would look much the same when he was fifty.

“Look!” he said. His voice was flat, hard, northern. “What have you been doing to upset Rose Pengelly? She was nearly in tears when she came out of here.”

“What does that have to do with you?” Claire asked. She smiled a cruel, tight-lipped smile. You’re a failure, she thought. Rose Pengelly’s chosen Rosco. Don’t you know that yet?

“I’m her friend,” Gerald Matthews said, blustering, hoping that he would be taken for Matilda’s father. “A very special friend.”

“You help her, do you? Support her in times of crisis?”

“That’s right.”

“Does she confide in you?”

“I hope so.”

“Did she tell you, for example, who was the father of her child?”

“I didn’t ask,” he lied. “ It was none of my business.”

Claire smiled again, laid her palms deliberately on the table, and leaned forward. She wanted to show him who was in charge.

“Tell me about Greg Franks,” she said.

“There’s nothing to tell. I’d only met him a couple of times. He was not the sort of birdwatcher I approve of. He probably wouldn’t even have called himself a birdwatcher. He would say he was a birder or a lister—dreadful Americanisms. He didn’t know very much about common birds. These youngsters move onto rarities too quickly, in my opinion. They don’t put in the groundwork. I’d been watching my local reed bed for years before I started going to the Scillies.”

She considered his words as the ravings of a lunatic. She had no idea what he was talking about. But they all came back to these birds, she thought. Perhaps I’m missing something. Can they really matter in a case like this? She turned Gerald Matthews’ attention back to Greg Franks.

“So you disapproved of him?”

“I did.”