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Saturday, Philly was having breakfast alone in the kitchen, her mother having attached herself to the hall telephone where she was likely to remain for some time, when her father threw open the door and burst in with Taff, a bright-eyed and chunky Welsh corgi, at his heels. In an instant there was pandemonium. As the dog bounded noisily into the kitchen the cat, spitting, leaped like a performing flea on to Philly’s knee. She was a very old but by no means moribund black Persian called Florence whom Philly had had since she was thirteen, and who hated Taff with a loathing which was fully reciprocated in every way. They could never be left alone in case either one of them killed the other.
    Taff was commanded to shut up and sit and eventually did so, though with great reluctance. Florence subsided warily under Philly’s stroking hands. Order temporarily restored, Denzil proceeded to scoop muesli into a pottery bowl for himself and a similar-looking concoction into a not dissimilar bowl for Taff, only just avoiding taking the wrong one for himself.
    â€˜What was the fuzz doing here, earlier on?’ Philly asked, as he eventually sorted things out, sat down and began pouring milk.
    â€˜The police? Oh, just someone to talk to me about increasing safety precautions at the Institute.’
    â€˜Haven’t they found who put that bomb there yet?’
    Her father, his mouth full, shook his head.
    â€˜They must have some sort of lead, surely? Well, no, even if they had, I don’t suppose you’d know.’
    Denzil hoped he had imagined the stress on the ‘you’. He sometimes felt his status here in this house was about on a par with that of Florence and Taff, only just above that of the inanimate furnishings, and about as much use. He’d have been the first to admit that he was hopelessly inefficient about the small details of everyday living but the fact was that neither his wife nor his daughter had any idea what went on in his mind. This didn’t much trouble him. It suited his purposes, in fact. As his alter ego at the Institute he cut an altogether different figure. There, he was well-liked and though easy-going and friendly, was respected for his abilities and had authority. Philly was correct, however, in assuming he didn’t know much about the police inquiries or how far they’d progressed. Even if he had known, he would never have dreamed of passing on what he knew to anyone else.
    â€˜Bloody fuzz, you’d think they’d have come up with something by now,’ Philly said scornfully and seemed about to add a few more choice adjectives but changed her mind. It was no fun when he remained unshockable. The last time she’d displayed the extent of her vocabulary it was his turn to shock her rigid when he’d responded in like manner, using words that even she’d hesitated over. She’d been more circumspect since then.
    â€˜They’re doing their best. Not much to go on,’ Denzil said pacifically.
    She turned impatiently but then said seriously, ‘The trouble with you, Pop, is that you’re so bloody long-suffering. Hasn’t it even occurred to you that you might have been killed?’
    Her voice had taken on a rough edge and he reflected with surprise that Miriam could have been right after all in being ready to believe that the reason Philly had come home so unexpectedly was because of a belated need to reassure herself that he was all right after his near miss with the bomb. Belated indeed – the bomb outrage had occurred almost a month ago – but he pushed aside a more unbearable thought as to why she might be here. All that had happened long ago, it was all over. If Miriam was right in her supposition, it pleased and touched him out of all proportion to the act. Philly was clever and had her mother’s energy and, like her, her life seemed to be organized to a T and full to overflowing with things unimaginable to him. At