The crowd shuffled away. Taylor took the old man by the arm and walked him to the Old Boar too. He was clutching the photograph as though his life depended on it.

Two police cars arrived outside the pub just ahead of the fire engine and she went out to meet PC Thomas White and a woman she vaguely recognised.

“What happened?” Thomas asked.

“I don’t know. There was just this huge explosion and the house must have gone up.”

“Good lord.” Thomas looked at what was left of the house.

“It’s all very nice having a quaint wooden house in the country,” the woman said, “but look what happens when it catches fire.”

“This is Jo.” Thomas was blushing. “Jo Freer. She works for Littlemore in forensics. We were sort of together when the call came through.”

“What do you think happened?” Taylor asked her.

“Probably gas. I’ve seen it plenty of times before. Old biddy forgets to turn off the gas stove. The slightest spark would’ve been enough. It was probably the lightning. Old people shouldn’t be allowed to own gas cookers.”

“You’re all heart,” Taylor said.

The fire engine finally appeared. There was not much they could do now for it, but at least they could save the old man’s house next door.

Thirty minutes later, it was all over. The flames were out and all that was left of the wooden house was a crumpled shell. It was obvious that everything inside had been consumed. The old man still held the framed photo in his arms.

“Are you all right?” Taylor asked him.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said. “I’m Fred. Fred Gunnell.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? I’m afraid your house will need to be checked over before you can go back.”

“I can stay with Bill. He won’t mind. We’ve been in and out of each other’s houses since we were boys.”

“Good. Then you’ll be all right. Is there anything else you need?”

“I’ve got everything I need right here.” Fred showed her the black-and-white photograph of a young woman. “That’s my Ellie,” he said proudly. “It was taken just after we were married. April. Nineteen fifty-five.”

“She’s beautiful,” Taylor said. The young woman’s smile lit up her face in the old photo.

“Thank you for coming to get me out. I really thought I’d had it,” Fred said. He had a tear in the corner of his eye. “Well,” he said, “I’d better be going.” He turned to leave.

“Fred,” Taylor said, “I’m sure your house will be fine tomorrow. It looks well built.”

“Like I said, I’ve seen worse.”

“Who’s the owner of the house that burned down?” Taylor asked at last.

“That’s young Dennis’ house. Dennis Albarn.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Alice Green was nearly ready for bed when she heard the explosion. After the thunderstorm, she had gone outside to the garden to check on the bees. The hives were well-protected and the bees were not normally fazed by the storms, but she still wanted to make sure. She was replacing the final frame in the hive when the blast rattled the windows of the house.

Alice ran inside to see if anything had been damaged. The jackdaw was climbing up and down the bars of his cage. He was obviously very unsettled.

“It’s all right, boy,” Alice said. “It was probably nothing.”

Her hands were shaking. She opened a bottle of port and took a long swig straight from the bottle. She had not done that in a very long time.

Sirens sounded in the distance. The explosion must have caused a fire somewhere.

She took out a glass and filled it to the brim. The sirens were getting louder. She went into the living room and opened the curtains. A crowd of people had gathered outside the Old Boar, further up the road. She spotted DC Taylor. Her hair was drenched. She was talking to the old man who lived next door to Dennis Albarn.

Alice drained her glass and poured herself another. There was far too much commotion outside for her to even think of going to sleep. She turned on the television. The local news was on. There was no mention of the explosion.

Of course not. It’s only just happened.

The leading story focused on a possible shark attack a few miles off the coast. A fisherman had pulled up the body of a man in his nets. The report was rather vague. A so-called shark expert was trying to convince the woman interviewing him that shark attacks were extremely rare and there was little chance of another attack. The reporter did not seem convinced. The weather forecaster warned of more severe storms over the next few days. They were advising people to be vigilant.

“Vigilant?” Alice said out loud. “There’s nothing you can do where nature’s concerned.”

The port was going down well. There was only a drop left in the bottle so Alice emptied it into her glass. She was starting to feel quite drunk. She could still hear the drone of voices in the street outside. The smell of smoke drifted in through the open living-room window. Alice got up and closed it, catching a glimpse of the fire engine. It was parked directly outside Dennis Albarn’s house. She smiled, finished her drink and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

* * *

Harriet Taylor opened the door to her house, went inside and collapsed on the sofa in the living room. Her wet hair and clothes reeked of smoke. She opened her pillbox and downed two sleeping pills. They were the last ones — she’d have to get some more pretty quickly.

She made her way upstairs and climbed under the shower. The high-pressure jets stung her scalp but she needed to get rid of the reek of smoke. She still could not take in everything that had happened that evening. She had gone to Polgarrow to speak to Dennis Albarn and now his house was burned to the ground. It didn’t make sense, and yet it was surely connected in some way.

Taylor turned off the shower and dried herself. The smoky smell still lingered but her eyes were feeling heavy. She brushed her teeth and made it to the bedroom just in time. Her hair was still wet but she didn’t care. She collapsed on the bed and fell asleep straight away.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The two men from the fire department entered the burned-out house at first light. The sun was rising over the ocean in the distance. There were no clouds in the sky. It was as if the storm had never happened.

All that was left of Dennis Albarn’s house were the timber columns that supported the wooden roof and ceilings. Bits of charred furniture lay smouldering in the middle of what had been the living room. There was shattered glass everywhere. A metal box that only slightly resembled a cooker stood black in the corner next to one of the columns.

“There’s your culprit,” Geoff Harding, the station manager of the Trotterdown fire department, said to his colleague Peter Sole. “See how the stove is blacker than the surrounding floor?”

He went over to get a better look. Broken glass crunched under his feet as he walked. He picked up a small piece of jagged metal.

“I’d say this is what’s left of the gas bottle,” he said. ”There’ll be a full forensic, of course, but my guess is this. Stove left on. A spark ignites it, it travels through the pipe to the bottle — and boom, the whole place goes up. I just pray there was nobody inside when the place exploded.”

“Sir,” Peter Sole looked at his boss, “can you smell that?” He sounded worried. Every firefighter knew what that sweetish smell could be. “And see — that?” He pointed to something on the floor next to a smouldering armchair.

It looked like a burned pile of blankets. Sole moved closer, lifted up the edge of the cloth and retched.

The man’s hair had been incinerated and his scalp was black and crispy like a piece of burnt bacon. The eye sockets were empty and the flesh around the mouth was gone, revealing a set of large black teeth. Harding swallowed hard and looked away.