"Do you remember what they looked like?" I asked.

"Well, yes, I suppose so." He frowned, thinking, pouring out more coffee. "There was a row of them in a tin, laid out carefully in cotton wool so that they shouldn't roll about. Small silverish tubes, about two and a half inches long."

"Fred says they had instructions with them."

He laughed. "Did he? A do-it-yourself bomb kit?" He sobered suddenly. "I suppose it was just that. I don't remember the instructions, but I dare say they were there."

"You did realise they were dangerous, didn't you?"

"I probably did, but all those years ago ordinary people didn't know so much about bombs. I mean, not terrorist bombs. We'd been bombed from the air, but that was different. I should think I took the detonators away from Fred so he shouldn't set off any more explosions, not because they were dangerous in themselves, if you see what I mean?"

"Mm. But you did know you shouldn't drop them?"

"You mean if I'd dropped them, I wouldn't be here talking about it?"

"According to the explosives expert working at Quantum, quite likely not."

"I never worked with explosives, being an adjutant." He buttered a piece of croissant, added marmalade and ate it. His service as a young officer in his war had been spent in arranging details of troop movements and as assistant to camp commanders, often near enough to the enemy but not seeing the whites of their eyes. He never spoke of it much: it had been history before I was born.

"I remembered where the cordite was, even after all this time," I said. "If you imagine yourself going into the house with this tin of detonators, where would you be likely to put it? You'd put it where you would think of looking for it first, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," he nodded, "always my system." A faraway unfocused look appeared in his eyes, then he suddenly sat bolt upright.

"I know where they are! I saw the tin not so very long ago, when I was looking for something else. I didn't pay much attention. It didn't even register what was in it, but I'm pretty sure now that that's what it was. It's a sort of sweet tin, not very big, with a picture on top."

"Where was it, and how long ago?"

"Surely," he said, troubled, "they'd be duds by this time?"

"Quite likely not."

"They're in the office." He shrugged self-excusingly. "You know I never tidy that place up. I'd never find anything ever again. I'm always having to stop people tidying it."

"Like Moira?"

"She could hardly bear to keep her hands off."

"Where in the office?" I remembered the jumble in his desk drawer when I'd fetched his passport. The whole place was similar.

"On top of some of the books in the breakfront bookcase. Bottom row, right over on the right-hand side, more or less out of sight when the door's closed. On top of the Dickens." His face suddenly split into a huge grin. "I remember now, by God. I put it there because the picture on the tin's lid was The Old Curiosity Shop." I rubbed my hand over my face, trying not to laugh. Superintendent Yale was going to love it.

"They're safe enough there," Malcolm said reasonably, "behind glass. I mean, no one can pick them up accidentally, can they? That's where they are."

I thought it highly likely that that's where they weren't, but I didn't bother to say so.

"The glass in the breakfront is broken," I said.

He was sorry about that. It had been his mother's, he said, like all the books.

"When did you see the tin there?" I asked.

"Haven't a clue. Not all that long ago, I wouldn't have thought, but time goes so quickly."

"Since Moira died?"

He wrinkled his forehead. "No, probably not. Then, before that, I was away from the house for a week or ten days when I couldn't stand being in the same place with her and she obdurately wouldn't budge. Before that, I was looking for something in a book. Not in Dickens, a shelf or two higher. Can't remember what book, though I suppose I might if I went back and stood in front of them and looked at the titles. Altogether, over three months ago, I should say."

I reflected a bit and drank my coffee. "I suppose the bookcase must have been moved now and then for redecorating. The books taken out…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Malcolm – interrupted with amusement. "It weighs more than a ton. The books stay inside it. Redecorating goes on around it, and not at all if I can help it. Moira tried to make me take everything out so she could paint the whole office dark green. I stuck my toes in. She had the rest of the house. That room is mine."

I nodded lazily. It was pleasant in the sunshine. A few people were sunbathing, a child was swimming, a waiter in a white jacket came along with someone else's breakfast. All a long way away from the ruins of Quantum.

From that quiet Sunday morning and on until Wednesday, Malcolm and I led the same remote existence, being driven round Los Angeles and Hollywood and Beverly Hills in a stretch-limousine Malcolm seemed to have hired by the yard, neck-twisting like tourists, going out to Santa Anita racetrack in the afternoons, dining in restaurants like Le Chardonnay. I gradually told him what was happening in the family, never pressing, never heated, never too much at one time, stopping at once if he started showing impatience.

"Donald and Helen should send their children to state schools," he said moderately.

"Maybe they should. But you sent Donald to Marlborough, and you went there yourself. Donald wants the best for his boys. He's suffering to give them what you gave him effortlessly."

"He's a snob to choose Eton."

"Maybe, but the Marlborough fees aren't much less."

"What if it was Donald and Helen who've been trying to kill me?"

"If they had plenty of money they wouldn't be tempted."

"You've said that before, or something like it."

"Nothing has changed."

Malcolm looked out of the long car's window as we were driven up through the hills of Bel Air on the way to the racetrack.

"Do you see those houses perched on the cliffs, hanging out over space? People must be mad to live like that, on the edge."

I smiled. "You do," I said.

He liked Santa Anita racetrack immediately and so did I; it would have been difficult not to. Royal palms near the entrances stretched a hundred feet upward, all bare trunks except for the crowning tufts, green fronds against the blue sky. The buildings were towered and turreted, sea-green in colour, with metal tracery of stylised palm leaves along the balconies and golden shutters over rear-facing windows. It looked more like a chateau than a racecourse, at first sight.

Ramsey Osborn had given Malcolm fistfuls of instructions and introductions and, as always, Malcolm was welcomed as a kindred spirit upstairs in the Club. He was at home from the first minute, belonging to the scene as if he'd been born there. I envied him his ease and didn't know how to acquire it. Maybe time would do it. Maybe millions. Maybe a sense of achievement.

While he talked easily to almost strangers (soon to be cronies) about the mixing of European and American bloodlines in thoroughbreds, I thought of the phone call I'd made at dawn on Monday morning to Superintendent Yale. Because of the eight-hour time difference, it was already afternoon with him, and I thought it unlikely I would reach him at first try. He was there, however, and came on the line with un stifled annoyance. "It's a week since you telephoned."

"Yes, sorry."

"Where are you?"

"Around," I said. His voice sounded as dear to me as if he were in the next room, and presumably mine to him, as he didn't at all guess I wasn't in England. "I found my father," I said.

"Oh. Good."

I told him where Malcolm had stored the detonators. "On top of The Old Curiosity Shop, as appropriate."

There was a shattered silence. "I don't believe it," he said.