“I really meant with the house, dear,” she said. “Are you going to rebuild?”

“Oh, I expect so,” I said. “I’ll have to wait and see what the insurance company says.”

I stayed with her for over an hour, and by that time, dear, she had showed me photos of all her many children and her very many grandchildren. Most of them lived in Australia, and she was obviously quite lonely and thankful for having someone to talk to. We opened the chocolates, and I had a second cup of tea.

I finally extricated myself from her life story and went back next door for a closer look at the remnants of my castle. I was not alone. A man in a dark blue jersey and royal blue trousers was picking his way through the ash.

“Hello,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“I’m fire brigade,” he said. “From the investigation team.”

“Oh right,” I said. “I own this heap of garbage.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“Ah well.” I smiled. “At least my ashes aren’t here for you to find.”

“Are anyone’s?” he asked seriously.

“No,” I said. “There was no one else in the house. Well, not unless they broke in after I had gone to bed and then died in the fire.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, not amused.

He went on poking the ash with a stick. At one point, he stopped and bent down, placing some of the ash into a plastic bag that he produced from his pocket.

“What have you found?” I asked him.

“Nothing special,” he said. “It’s just for an accelerant test.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Test to see if an accelerant had been present,” he said. “An accelerant like petrol, paint thinners or paraffin, that sort of thing.”

“I thought it was electrical,” I said.

“Probably was,” he said. “Most fires are electrical, but we need to do the test anyway. I don’t expect it to show much. This place is so badly burned out that it will be damn near impossible to determine how it started.”

He went back to his poking of the ash. After a while, he lifted something up on his stick, as if landing a salmon.

“Aha,” he said. “What have we got here?”

It looked like a black molten lump to me. I didn’t recognize it as anything I had once owned.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Your smoke detector,” he said.

I couldn’t remember having heard its alarm go off.

“You should have had a battery in it,” he said. “It’s not much use without a battery. You might have got the brigade here sooner and saved something if your detector had had a battery.”

“But it did have a battery,” I said.

“No, sir,” he said with conviction. “It did not. See how the heat has caused it to seal up completely?” He showed the lump to me. I would have to take his word for it. “If there had been a battery, then it would still be there, or at least the remains of it would. I still can see the clip, but there are no battery terminals attached to it. It definitely did not have a battery in it.” He paused, as if for effect. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen this. Loads of people forget to replace a detector battery, or, like you, they take out the old one and then forget to put a new one back in.”

But I hadn’t forgotten. There had to have been a battery in the detector. I had replaced it, as I always did, when the clocks went forward for summertime in March. It had gone off just last week when I had again burned some toast. It definitely had a battery. I was sure of it, just as sure as my investigator friend was that it had been batteryless.

I went cold and clammy. Someone had obviously removed my smoke detector battery before setting my house alight with me in it. With or without an accelerant, an established fire at the bottom of the stairs would have given me little chance of escaping. I had simply been lucky to wake up when I had.

I suddenly was certain that the fire had been the second time someone had tried to kill me.

15

I was frightened. Very frightened. Twice I had cheated an assassin. I didn’t like to think “third time lucky” or “if at first you don’t succeed-try, try again.”

“Who could it be?” I asked myself yet again. “Who on earth could want me dead, and why?”

It was six o’clock in the evening, and I sat in the rented Mondeo in the empty parking lot of the Newmarket racetrack. I didn’t know why I chose there, particularly. I just wanted to be somewhere away from anyone else, and with enough space to see someone coming. The lot was deserted, save for my Mondeo in the center of it. I looked all around. There was no one about.

Who could I trust? Could I, in fact, trust anyone?

Caroline, I thought. I would trust her with my life. I suddenly realized that indeed it was my life I would lose if I made a mistake and trusted the wrong person.

The safest course was to trust no one. Not even my kindly neighbor, dear.

But I couldn’t stay sitting here in this parking lot forever.

Could I trust Carl? Was I safe to sleep in his house? Was he safe if I was sleeping in his house? I had witnessed only too clearly what a fire could do and how close I had come to joining my smoke detector as its victim. I really didn’t want to take that risk again.

Should I now go to the police? But would they believe me? It all seemed so unreal, even to me. Would they take me seriously enough to give me protection? It was not worth going to the police if they simply took a statement and then sent me away to my death. It wouldn’t help if they only believed me after I was dead.

I used my new cell phone to call the Hay Net. Martin, my barman, answered, and I asked him to get Carl for me.

“He’s in the kitchen, Chef,” said Martin. “I’ll get him.”

I waited.

“Hello,” Carl said finally. “Everything OK?”

“No, not exactly,” I said. “I’ve got to go away for a few days.”

“Where to?” he said.

Where to indeed? I thought. “Er, I’m not sure.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “My mother is unwell, and I need to be with her. Can you cope without me for the rest of the week?”

“Sure,” he said rather uncertainly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” I said. “I’ll be fine. But has anything arrived for me, by messenger?”

“Yes,” he replied, “about half an hour ago. Do you want me to bring it somewhere?”

“No, it’s all right. I’ll come and collect it.”

“How about your stuff at my place?” he said. I had left my overnight bag and shaving kit at his house.

“Don’t worry about them,” I said. “I’ll buy myself a new toothbrush and razor.”

“I can fetch them, if you like,” he said, still sounding a little unsure.

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I have to go right now. Leave the package by the front door, will you?”

“All right, if you say so.” He clearly thought I was crazy.

I drove down the familiar road to the restaurant, looking left and right for any danger. There was none, at least none that I could see. I left the engine running as I jumped out and dashed inside the restaurant. The package was where I had asked Carl to leave it, and I grabbed it and went straight back out to the car.

“Max,” called Carl, following me outside. “Max, wait.”

I stood by the open door of the car.

“I’m sorry, Carl, I’ve got to go.”

“Call me, then,” he said.

“Later,” I said. “I’ll try to call you later.”

I climbed in and drove off, checking my rearview mirror every few seconds to see if I was being followed. I wasn’t. I was running away, and even I wasn’t sure where I was going.

THE FOLLOWING morning, I ran farther away. I caught the ten-fifty a.m. flight to Chicago.

After leaving the restaurant the previous evening, I had driven aimlessly down the A14 to Huntingdon and had stopped in the deserted parking lot of a closed carpet store.

Someone once told me that it was possible to trace the location from which a cell phone call was made. I had taken the risk, and first called my mother. Second, I called Caroline.