I silently crossed the room to the wardrobe, but before I had a chance to open it I heard the third tread of the staircase creak. I had been meaning to fix that step for years but couldn’t be bothered to lift all the carpet. I had become so obsessed with the creak that I missed it out, always taking two steps together at that point. The wear of the carpet there-or, rather, the lack of it-was even becoming noticeable against the others.

My visitor hadn’t known about it, and in the darkness he wouldn’t have spotted the underused carpet. But I knew that the step always creaked as weight was applied and also creaked again as weight was removed.

I stood absolutely stock-still beside my wardrobe, listening. I was holding my breath, and I could begin to hear the blood rushing in my ears. There had definitely been only one creak. The intruder had stopped on the stairs in midclimb and was, no doubt, listening for any movement from me as hard as I was from him.

I had to breathe.

I decided to snort through my nose like a pig. I snored loudly, and then exhaled in a long rasping wheeze. I snored once more, and, quite clearly, I heard the third step creak again as my nocturnal visitor removed his weight from it. I assumed he was still on the way up, not going back down. I snored a third time, then grunted as if turning over in bed.

The wardrobe was behind my bedroom door.

I flattened myself against the wall and stared at the door handle, which was a brass lever with a small scroll on the end. My heart was thumping so hard in my chest that I was sure it must be audible out on the landing.

The handle began to depress, and my heart almost went into palpitations. Slowly the door opened towards me.

Attack had to be the best form of defense.

When the door was about halfway open, I threw myself against it with all the force I could muster, attempting to slam it shut again. But the door didn’t fully close because my visitor’s right arm was preventing it. I could clearly see his gloved hand and his wrist protruding into my bedroom. There was a gratifying groan from its owner each time I pushed against the door, repeatedly throwing my weight against the wood.

“You’ve broken my bloody arm!” he shouted.

Good, I thought. Pity I hadn’t torn it off completely.

“What do you want?” I shouted back through the door, still refusing to ease up the pressure to release his arm.

“Sod off,” he shouted back. “I’m going to kill you, you bastard.”

Not if I had any say in the matter, he wasn’t.

I put my right foot down on the floor to stop the door from opening, leaned back and then threw my whole weight against it once more.

This time, he didn’t just groan, he screamed.

So I repeated it. He screamed again.

“What do you want?” I shouted again.

“I want to break your fucking neck,” he said back to me through the door, sounding very close indeed.

I pressed again, the door squeezing against his damaged arm.

“And what exactly are you looking for?” I said.

“The microcoder,” he said

“What’s that?”

“It’s a microcoder,” he repeated unhelpfully.

“What does it look like?” I asked.

“A flat black box with buttons on it,” he said. “Give me the microcoder and I’ll go away.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands,” I said, pushing hard on the door. “What does this microcoder do?”

Instead of answering, he threw his weight against his side of the door to try to open it, but my foot was still preventing that. However, the wood bent sufficiently enough for him to extract his arm. The door slammed shut.

My advantage, it seemed, was over, but I still couldn’t hear him going down the stairs.

“What does the microcoder do?” I repeated, shouting through the door.

“Never you mind,” he said, still sounding very close. “Just give it back.”

“I haven’t got it,” I said.

“I think you have.”

“Is it yours?” I asked.

“Your father stole it,” he said. “And I want it back.”

“Was that why you murdered him?” I asked.

“I didn’t murder anyone,” he said. “But I could murder you, you bastard. I’m in agony here.”

“Serves you right,” I said. “You shouldn’t come snooping round other people’s houses uninvited.”

“It doesn’t give you the right to break my arm,” he whined.

“I think you’ll find it does,” I said. “Now, get out of my house and stay out.”

“Not without the microcoder,” he said.

“I told you, I haven’t got it.”

“Yes, you bloody have,” he said with a degree of certainty. “You must have it. Where else would it be?”

We didn’t seem to be making any progress.

I hooked my left foot around Sophie’s dressing-table chair and pulled it towards me. I then placed the back of the chair tight under the door handle. I should have done that at first, I thought. There was absolutely no way I was going to open my bedroom door while he remained in my house, so there was equally no chance I was going to hand over what he had called the microcoder.

Stalemate ensued for the next fifteen minutes or so.

I was wondering what he was up to when he suddenly banged on the door, making me jump.

“Are you still awake in there?” he asked.

“What do you think?” I replied.

“Yeah, well, sorry and all that,” he said quite casually. “I’ll be off now, then.” He said it as if he’d just been around for a drink or something and it was time to go home.

“Who are you?” I said.

“Never you mind,” he said again. “But I didn’t kill your father.”

I heard him go down the stairs, and the third step, my new friend, creaked twice as he descended. Then I heard the front door being opened. Then it was slammed shut.

I went across to my bedroom window and looked down. The man had indeed left my house, and I watched the top of his head as he walked across the car-parking area and onto the road. He appeared to be cradling his right arm in his left, and, at one point, he turned briefly to look up at me, as if intentionally showing me his face. I recognized him immediately. It wasn’t the man with the close-set eyes who had stabbed my father in the Ascot parking lot-it was the elusive fourth stranger from his inquest.

I stood looking out my bedroom window for some time in case he came back. I neither saw nor heard any car drive away, and I was still very wary as I finally removed the chair from under the door handle and peeped out onto the landing.

I didn’t yet know how he’d made it into my house in the first place. I didn’t really relish going downstairs only to find him there once more, having simply gone around the block and back in through one of the rear windows that faced the garden.

The house was quiet, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

I stood at the top of the stairs straining to hear any sound from below, maybe a breath or a shuffle of feet. But there was nothing.

I crept silently down, avoiding step three, listening carefully and ready to run back up to my bedroom bolt-hole at the slightest noise. There was no one there. He really had gone away, and he’d not come back again. I turned on all the lights and went around the house to close the stable door now that the horse had bolted.

In truth, I’d made it far too easy for him. As well as the fanlight in my bedroom being open, so had the one in the living room, and he had simply put his arm through it, opened the big window beneath and climbed in. He’d left some muddy footprints on the fawn carpet under the window. No doubt, I should now call the police, and they could take photos of the prints and try to match them to a specific shoe size and manufacturer.

Instead, I used my handheld vacuum cleaner to clear up the mess.

The phone handset in the kitchen was off the hook. I picked it up and listened. Nothing. I replaced it on the cradle, then lifted it again and pressed REDIAL. The LED readout just showed 0. A female computer-generated voice stated that “The number you have called has not been recognized, please check and try again,” and that phrase was repeated about six times, and then it shut off completely, leaving the line dead.