The helicopter comes for us at midday. Aboard are two Twelve paramilitaries, both carrying sidearms. They jump down onto the platform, carry out a thorough search of the entire installation, nod cursorily at Nobby and Ginge, and shepherd us on board the Super Puma. As we swing away into the wind I peer downwards, suddenly fearful that Anton's body will appear, arms outstretched, borne up by the choppy waves. But there's nothing, no accusing corpse, only the diminishing figures of Nobby and Ginge on the platform, and the gray wastes of the sea.

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