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time!’
    Jackson grimaced and switched off.
    ‘What did he say?’ Murphy asked.
    Jackson told him. Murphy said, ‘So we’ve been wasting our time?’
    ‘We’ve made him move on. We must have been close. Anyway, he can’t stay ahead for ever.’
    Murphy said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘You said that about the fucking rain. You said it couldn’t rain forever!’
    Jackson grinned. ‘If only he’d been there in Prague, we wouldn’t have had all this chasing to do. It would have been over and done with.’
    ‘And we could have stayed there a bit longer. I liked Prague.’
    ‘A bit cold, though. Remember?’
    ‘Not all the time,’ Murphy said, chuckling as he remembered. ‘It got pretty warm in that flat when we turned up and they realized they’d come to the end of the road.’
    ‘Yes,’ Jackson agreed. ‘It got pretty warm then. We did a neat and tidy job.’
    ‘Apart from the one that got away.’
    Jackson nodded and leaned forward to start the engine.

Chapter Six
    The voice was tired and distant-sounding.
    ‘Yes?’
    No identifiers, he noted with a wry smile. Old habits.
    ‘You told me to call you – anytime.’
    He let that lie for a moment, time for it to sink in, his voice to be recognized.
    ‘It’s been a long time. How are you?’
    A little interest had crept into the voice. That was encouraging.
    ‘Troubled. I was wondering if it would be extremely inconvenient for me to visit you?’
    Short pause; then:
    ‘When? Today? Now?’
    The voice was sharper now, sleep perhaps being pushed back, along with the covers.
    ‘If possible. I’m not far away, you see.’
    ‘And it’s urgent, I assume?’
    ‘Very.’
    ‘You don’t know where I live, do you?’
    The voice was getting crisper by the minute.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Brackenrigg Cottage, Nether Wasdale.’ Pause to glance atwatch or clock. ‘Say about eleven?’
    ‘Fine. See you then.’
    He was about to add a pleasantry, but Callerton had switched off. Brief and to the point. Old habits again.
     
    The timing of recent events was niggling away at him. So, soon after 7 a.m., he rang the farm, knowing the working day would be well underway by then. Mrs Ainslie, who together with her husband owned the place, answered.
    ‘Oh, Mr Gibson! Terrible news, I’m afraid. I was wondering how we could contact you.’
    ‘Mrs Ainslie?’
    ‘The caravan – your caravan! It burned down. It’s gone, I’m afraid. There’s nothing left.’
    He expressed astonishment.
    ‘How did it happen, Mrs. Ainslie?’
    ‘We don’t know. We have no idea. We only wish we did. The fire service and the police have both been to investigate, and we’re expecting them back again today. But they haven’t said anything about what they’ve discovered.’
    ‘Nobody hurt, I hope, Mrs Ainsley?’
    ‘No, thank God! None of the caravans are occupied at the moment.’
    ‘So there’s been nobody there, on site?’
    ‘No one at all, the past week or two. My husband thought he might have heard a car the other night, just after it got dark. And there seemed to be fresh tyre tracks in the morning, but we didn’t see anyone. It’s a bit scary, actually. We can’t understand what’s happened. And we’re so very sorry, Mr Gibson.’
    ‘It’s not your fault. Don’t you worry about that, Mrs Ainslie. So when did the … the fire happen, exactly?’
    Just in time he had stopped himself saying ‘attack’ – whenhad the attack happened?
    ‘Wednesday night, early on. We heard an explosion, and then there were flames shooting into the sky. Whether it was a gas bottle….’
    ‘Probably.’
    But unlikely, he thought grimly. Not the initial spark, anyway. Not the cause of it.
    ‘Well, never mind, Mrs Ainslie. It was an old van and there was nothing of great value in it. I’ll get the insurance company to contact you about a replacement. If that’s all right with you?’
    ‘Yes, of course it is. We’re just so sorry this has happened, Mr Gibson.’
    Not as sorry as I am,