interrupted him at his computer, and grudgingly let me in.
‘We’ve nothing to say,’ he said, but he sounded more resigned than forbidding; half-relaxed, as he’d been in my flat.
He led the way into the front room of the bungalow he and Debs had bought on the road to Reading. The front room was his office, a perfectly natural arrangement to Ferdinand, since Malcolm’s office had always been at home.
The rest of the bungalow, which I’d visited two or three times before, was furnished sparsely in accordance with Debs’ and Ferdinand’s joint dislike of dirt and clutter. One of the three bedrooms was completely empty, one held a single bed and a chest of drawers (for Serena’s visits), and in the third, the couple’s own, there was a mattress on a platform and a wall of cupboards and enclosed shelves that Ferdinand had put together himself. The sitting-room held two chairs, a standard lamp, a lot of floor cushions and a television set. In the tidy kirchen, there was a table with four stools. All visible life was in the office, though even there, in direct contrast to Malcolm’s comfortable shambles, a spartan order of neatness ruled.
Ferdinand’s computer bore a screenful of graphics. He glanced at it and then looked with some impatience back to me.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘I’ve a lot to do after being away on a course.’
‘Can’t you save all that,’ I gestured to the screen, ‘or whatever it is you do? Record it, and come out to a pub for krtich.’
He shook his head and looked at his witch. Then, in indecision, said, ‘I suppose I have to eat,’ and fiddled about with the computer. ‘All right. Half an hour, max.’
I drove us to the town centre and he pointed out a pub with a carpark. The bar was full of business people similarly out for lunch breaks, and I bought scotch and sandwiches after a good deal of polite elbowing. Ferdinand had secured a table from which he was clearing the past customer’s detritus with a finicky expression.
‘Look,’ I said, handing him his drink as we sat down, ‘Malcolm wants me to find out who’s trying to kill him.’
‘It isn’t me,’ he said. He took a swallow, unconcerned.
‘Do you remember old Fred blowing up the tree roots, that time? When we were about twelve or thirteen? When the blast blew old Fred flat?’
He stared. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said slowly, ‘but that’s years ago. It can’t have anything to do with the house.’
‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘That bang made a big impression on us. Memories last more or less for ever, they just need digging up. The explosives expert working at Quantum asked if I knew what cordite was, and I remembered old Fred.’
Ferdinand did his own digging. ‘Black powder… in a box.’
‘Yes, it’s still there in the tool shed. Still viable, but not used on the house. They’re working now on its being a homemade explosive called ANFO.’
Ferdinand was visibly shaken and after a minute said, ‘I suppose I hadn’t considered… what it was.’
‘Do you know what ANFO is?’ I asked.
He said no uncertainly, and I thought he wasn’t being truthful. Perhaps he felt that knowing could be considered guilt. I needed to jolt him into being more positive. Into being an ally, if I could.
‘Malcolm’s made a new will,’ I said.
‘And left you the lot, I suppose,’ he sneered bitterly.
‘No,’ I said. ‘If he dies from normal causes, we all inherit equally.’ I paused, and added an invention. ‘If someone murders him, it all goes to charities. So how about you getting on the telephone and telling the whole tribe to help me find out who’s trying to do them out of their future?’
Fourteen
In my room at Cookham in the evening, I read Norman West’s notes on Gervase and Ursula.
Gervase first:
Mr Gervase Pembroke (35) lives with Mrs Ursula at 14 Grant St., Maidenhead, a detached house with a quarter-acre garden in good residential neighbourhood. They have been married for 11 years and have 2 daughters (8 and 6) both attending a private school.
Mr G. is a stockbroker who commutes to the City firm of Wells, Gibson 6c Cathcart. (Wells, Gibson and Cathcart have all died or retired long ago, but the respected name is kept.) Mr Gervase works for his own commission within the firm: each partner does. He has flexible working hours; he’s his own boss to a great extent. He used to work harder than he does now but has