"Yes," I agreed, pulling up outside his hotel. "All the same, go and pack and check out of here, and we'll go somewhere else."

"It's not necessary," he protested.

"You appointed me as minder, so I'm minding," I said.

He gave me a long look in the dim light inside the car.

The doorman of the hotel stepped forward and opened the door beside me, an invitation to step out.

"Come with me," my father said.

I was both astounded by his fear and thought it warranted. I asked the doorman where I should park, and turned at his suggestion through an arch into the hotel's inner court way From there, through a back door and comfortable old-fashioned hallways, Malcolm and I went up one flight of red-carpeted stairs to a lengthy winding corridor. Several people we passed glanced down at my torn trouser-leg with the dried-blood scenery inside, but no one said anything: was it still British politeness, I wondered, or the new creed of not getting involved? Malcolm, it seemed, had forgotten the problem existed.

He brought his room key out of his pocket and, with it raised, said abruptly, "I suppose you didn't tell anyone I would be at the sales."

"No, I didn't."

"But you knew." He paused. "Only you knew."

He was staring at me with the blue eyes and I saw all the sudden fear-driven question marks rioting through his mind.

"Go inside," I said. "The corridor isn't the place for this."

He looked at the key, he looked wildly up and down the now empty corridor, poised, almost, to run.

I turned my back on him and walked purposefully away in the direction of the stairs.

"Ian," he shouted.

I stopped and turned round.

"Come back," he said.

I went back slowly.

"You said you trusted me," I said.

"I haven't seen you for three years… and I broke your nose…"

I took the key out of his hand and unlocked the door. I supposed I might have been suspicious of me if I'd been attacked twice in five days, considering I came into the high-probability category of son. I switched on the light and went forward into the room which was free from lurking murderers that time at least.

Malcolm followed, only tentatively reassured, closing the door slowly behind him. I drew the heavy striped curtains across the two windows and briefly surveyed the spacious but old-fashioned accommodation: reproduction antique furniture, twin beds, pair of armchairs, door to bathroom.

No murderer in the bathroom.

"Ian…" Malcolm said.

"Did you bring any scotch?" I asked. In the old days, he'd never travelled without it.

He waved a hand towards a chest of drawers where I found a half- full bottle nestling among a large number of socks. I fetched a glass from the bathroom and poured him enough to tranquillise an elephant.

"For God's sake…" he said.

"Sit down and drink it."

"You're bloody arrogant."

He did sit down, though, and tried not to let the glass clatter against his teeth from the shaking of his hand.

With much less force, I said, "If I'd wanted you dead, I'd have let that car hit you tonight. I'd have jumped the other way… out of trouble."

He seemed to notice clearly for the first time that there had been any physical consequences to our escape.

"Your leg," he said, "must be all right?"

"Leg is. Trousers… can I borrow a pair of yours?"

He pointed to a cupboard where I found a second suit almost identical to the one he was wearing. I was three inches taller than he and a good deal thinner but, belted and slung round the hips, whole cloth was better than holey.

He silently watched me change and made no objection when I telephoned down to the reception desk and asked them to get his bill ready for his departure. He drank more of the scotch, but nowhere was he relaxed.

"Shall I pack for you?" I asked.

He nodded, and watched some more while I fetched his suitcase, opened it on one of the beds and began collecting his belongings. The things he'd brought spoke eloquently of his state of mind when he'd packed them: about ten pairs of socks but no other underwear, a dozen shirts, no pyjamas, two to welling bath-robes, no extra shoes. The clearly new electric razor in the bathroom still bore a stick-on price tag, but he had brought his antique gold-and-silver- backed brushes, all eight of them, including two clothes brushes. I put everything into the case, and closed it.

"Ian," he said.

"Mm?"

"People can pay assassins… You could have decided not to go through with it tonight… at the last moment…"

"it wasn't like that," I protested. Saving him had been utterly instinctive, without calculation or counting of risks: I'd been lucky to get off with a graze.

He said almost beseechingly, with difficulty, "it wasn't you, was it, who had Moira… Or me, in the garage…? Say it wasn't you."

I didn't know really how to convince him. He'd known me better, lived with me longer than with any of his other children, and if his trust was this fragile then there wasn't much future between us.

"I didn't have Moira killed," I said. "if you believe it of me, you could believe it of yourself." I paused. "I don't want you dead, I want you alive. I could never do you harm."

It struck me that he really needed to hear me say I loved him, so although he might scoff at the actual words, and despite the conditioned inhibitions of my upbringing, I said, feeling that desperate situations needed desperate remedies, "You're a great father… and… er… I love you."

He blinked. Such a declaration pierced him, one could see. I'd probably overdone it, I thought, but his distrust had been a wound for me too.

I said much more lightly, "I swear on the Coochie Pembroke Memorial Challenge Trophy that I would never touch a hair on your head… nor Moira's either, though I did indeed loathe her."

I lifted the suitcase off the bed.

"Do I go on with you or not?" I said. "if you don't trust me, I'm going home."

He was looking at me searchingly, as if I were a stranger, which I suppose in some ways I was. He had never before, I guessed, had to think of me not as a son but as a man, as a person who had led a life separate from his, with a different outlook, different desires, different values. Sons grew from little boys into their own adult selves: fathers tended not to see the change clearly. Malcolm, I was certain, thought of me basically as still having the half-formed personality I'd had at fifteen.

"You're different," he said.

"I am the same. Trust your instinct."

Some of the tension at last slackened in his muscles. His instinct had been trust, an instinct strong enough to carry him to the telephone after three silent years.

He finished the scotch and stood up, filling his lungs with a deep breath as if making resolves.

"Come with me then," he said.

I nodded.

He went over to the chest of drawers and from the bottom drawer, which I hadn't checked, produced a briefcase. I might have guessed it would be there somewhere: even in the direst panic, he wouldn't have left behind the lists of his gold shares or his currency exchange calculator. He started with the briefcase to the door, leaving me to bring the suitcase, but on impulse I went over again to the telephone and asked for a taxi to be ready for us.

"But your car's here," Malcolm said.

"Mm. I think I'll leave it here, for now."

"But why?"

"Because if I didn't tell anyone you were going to Newmarket Sales, and nor did you, then it's probable you were followed there, from… er… here. If you think about it… the car that tried to kill you was waiting in the sales car-park, but you didn't have a car. You went there by taxi. Whoever drove at you must have seen you and Me togetherand known who I was, and guessed you might leave with me, so although I didn't see anyone following us tonight from Newmarket, whoever-it-was probably knew we would come here, to this hotel, so… well… so they Might be hanging about in the courtyard where we parked, where it's nice and dark outside the back door, waiting to see if we come out again."