‘And, sir,’ Jack Fleet said, regarding him anxiously. ‘Back off now, please. I know you’re trying to help the old lady, but attempted arson and assault are in a slightly different league to daubing someone’s house with graffiti and a spot of extreme gardening. You’ve already had a clout for your troubles . . .’

This was no time for a discussion, so Matt raised his hands. ‘You’re right, and I’m sensing that Liz here is keen for me to get home. Do you want me to come to the station tomorrow?’

Debbie Hume shook her head. ‘We’ll be back here at first light, so we can call in on you. Any particular time suit you?’

‘Whenever you want. We’ll be there.’

As Matt turned to walk away, Debbie Hume took his arm. ‘Sorry, sir, you still look pretty groggy to me. You can change your mind about going to the hospital if you want?’

‘Liz will drive me home, and I’ll get to bed.’ He smiled. ‘But thank you for your concern.’

He climbed into Liz’s car, his already aching head reverberating with unanswered questions. Something was lurking in the corner of his mind, and it was ringing alarm bells.

‘Home, James, and could we leave that bollocking until I’ve had a few hours’ sleep?’ Matt asked.

‘Well, just this once. It’s more than you deserve, though. Pull another stunt like that again and all hell will break loose, I promise you,’ Liz said.

‘Sorry, Liz,’ he mumbled. ‘That was really stupid, a proper rookie mistake. I deserved a bang on the head for being such a plank.’

‘Well, I’m not going to argue with that,’ Liz said, ‘although if I’m honest, I’d have probably done the same.’

‘I’m just pig sick the bastard got away. Jesus, he could have burnt the place down.’

* * *

Back at Cannon Farm, Liz sent him straight to bed. He lay with his head throbbing mercilessly. At midnight, he awoke feeling sick, but it passed, and he drifted back to sleep.

At just after seven o’clock, he awoke and sat up, but giddiness forced him to sink back on to the pillows. After a while, he tried again, this time considerably more slowly. The throbbing in his head had reduced to a steady thud. He slid his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up tentatively, considering himself quite fortunate to have got away with just a headache. His sight was unaffected, and he hadn’t been sick. All good signs, he told himself.

‘Hey, back into bed, you!’ Liz stood in the doorway and glared at him over a breakfast tray. ‘Nurse’s orders.’

She placed the tray on his lap — hot buttered toast and marmalade, and a cafetière of freshly ground coffee.

‘This is wonderful. I must remember to get thumped more often.’