Millon rummaged in his pocket for a notepad, found it and flicked through the pages, which seemed to be full of numbers.

“It’s here somewhere,” he said apologetically. “I like to collect vacumn-cleaner serial numbers and was investigating a rare Hoover XB-23E when I got the call. Here it is. This Kaine fellow is a conspiracist’s delight. He arrived on the scene five years ago with no past, no history, no parents—nothing. His national insurance number wasn’t given to him until 1982, and it seems the only jobs he has ever held were with his publishing company and then as MP.”

“Not a lot to go on, then.”

“Not yet, but I’ll keep digging. You might be interested to know that he has been seen on several occasions with Lola Vavoom.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Agreed. You wanted to know about Mr. Schitt-Hawse? He heads the Goliath tech division.”

“You sure?”

Millon looked dubious for a moment.

“In the conspiracy industry, the word ‘sure’ has a certain plasticity about it, but yes. We have a mole at Goliathopolis. Admittedly our mole only serves in the canteen, but you’d be surprised the sensitive information that one can overhear giving out shortbread fingers. Apparently Schitt-Hawse has been engaged in something called the Ovitron Project. We’re not positive, but it might be a development of your uncle’s Ovinator. Could it be something along the lines of The Midwich Cuckoos?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

I made a few notes, thanked Millon for his time and pushed Friday back to my car, my head full of potential futures, Ovinators and Kaine.

Ten minutes later we were in my Speedster, heading north towards Cricklade. My father had told me that Cindy would fail to kill me three times before she died herself, but there was a chance the future didn’t have to turn out that way—after all, I had once been shot dead by a SpecOps marksman in an alternative future, and I was still very much alive.

I hadn’t seen Spike for more than two years but had been gratified to learn he had moved out of his dingy apartment to a new address in Cricklade. I soon found his street—it was on a newly built estate of Cotswold stone that shone a warm glow of ocher in the sunlight. As we drove slowly down the road checking door numbers, Friday helpfully pointed out things of interest.

“Ipsum,” he said, pointing at a car.

I was hoping that Spike wasn’t there so I could speak to Cindy on her own, but I was out of luck. I parked up behind his SpecOps black-and-white and climbed out. Spike himself was sitting on a deck chair on the front lawn, and my heart fell when I saw that not only had he married Cindy but they had also had a child—a one-year-old girl was sitting on the grass next to him playing under a parasol. I cursed inwardly as Friday hid behind my leg. I was going to have to make Cindy play ball—the alternative wouldn’t be good for her and would be worse for Spike and their daughter.