'You suspect suicide.'

'The man was desperate. If he simply burns down the building, the bank, as current owner, takes the insurance. If he burns it down with himself in it then his wife and family pick up the life insurance, which, incidentally, is another of our policies. If, that is, the fire is deemed to be an accident. I intend to make sure that it is not deemed so.'

Beaumont stared at the blackened remains of the house. He watched as the charred corpse was removed by police Forensics officers and taken away for further examination. As he did so, he considered what Andrew Tanner had said.

'I don't think it was suicide, Mr Tanner,' Beaumont said eventually.

'Please, Inspector, I know this game,' Tanner replied. 'Corby was a fit man. A strong man. His body was found on the ground floor. Are you seriously telling me that once that fire took hold he couldn't have made it to the front door or a window? Of course he could. He just didn't want to, did he?'

'If I was going to kill myself I don't think I'd choose to burn myself to death. I mean how agonizing would it be? Anything would be better, surely? Why not just dive head first out of the top window? That'd do it. Or drink a bottle of Scotch and open a vein. Anything but burning.'

'Because he had to make it look like an accident,' Tanner said with a touch of impatience.

'Only a coward would desert his wife and children like that,' Beaumont replied. 'I knew Corby slightly. I don't think he was a coward.'

'Of course he wasn't a coward, Inspector,' Tanner said. 'How brave would you have to be to pull off a stunt like this? A lot braver than most men, that's for sure. He wanted to provide for his family and the last asset he had left on earth was his own miserable failed life and the insurance attached to it. Alive, he'd let his wife down totally. Dead, he could leave her comparatively rich and his kids provided for. Life insurance, Inspector. That's what this is about. It's what it's always about.'

It certainly sounded plausible.

But Inspector Beaumont wasn't happy. He simply did not believe that Jimmy Corby had planned to kill himself.

On the other hand, if it was an accident it was one hell of a coincidence, happening just when all Jimmy's troubles were collapsing in on him at once. And, as Andrew Tanner had pointed out, Jimmy was very fit and still relatively young. Surely he could have got out in time?

But Beaumont knew something that Andrew Tanner did not. There was another possibility altogether.

Not suicide. Not an accident.

But murder.

Jimmy's wife was not the only person who would profit from his death.

Someone else had a very real interest in silencing Jimmy Corby.

Grilling the lord Early that evening Beaumont was once more questioning Lord Bennett.

'Mrs Corby tells me you called her this morning trying to get hold of Jimmy Corby. She says she told you he was at 23 Webb Street. Is that correct?'

'Yes it is, and I went to see him there this morning.'

'You went to talk to him about Caledonian Granite?'

'I went to see how he was.'

This time Beaumont was not meeting Rupert at the sumptuous new Maximalism office and they were not sipping creamy lattes served by a gorgeous PA either. Beaumont had had Rupert brought in to Scotland Yard.

'I don't think that's true,' Beaumont said. 'I think you went to see Corby because you wanted to ensure that he would not talk, and when you decided that you could not be sure you took matters into your own hands.'

Rupert had of course brought his lawyer with him. The man began immediately to object to Beaumont's leading statement in the strongest possible terms. But Rupert stopped him, angrily saying he wanted to speak for himself.

'You're crazy, Inspector!' Rupert blurted. 'I'm not a murderer, for God's sake. I went to talk to him . . .'

'About keeping quiet.'

'As a mate. I went to thank him because I knew you'd pulled him in because you were trying to get to me. I was sorry to cause him any more bother than he was in already. We were friends. He was pleased to see me. We've been a bit distant lately but we made up. I knew he was broke so I took along a bottle of whisky and some beers. We had a nip or two and a chat, that's all.'

'In the middle of the morning?'

'Jim Corby and I have had a drink or two on every single occasion we've met for nearly twenty years. The credit crunch ain't gonna change that.'

Beaumont leaned forward over the desk so that his face came within a foot or so of Rupert's.

'You didn't go to Webb Street to drink or to chat. You went there to get a guarantee out of your old friend that he would not talk to us about the Caledonian Granite share tips.'

'Inspector, I protest at your-' the lawyer began, but once again Rupert silenced him.

'Inspector,' he said, calmly, smoothly almost, 'as I think we've discussed many times before, I have nothing to hide regarding Caledonian Granite and you have not shown me a single bit of concrete evidence to suggest that I do.'

'My bit of concrete evidence, Lord Bennett, has been reduced to a pile of ashes and a half-melted Rolex!'

'Inspector, you are talking about my oldest friend!' Rupert snapped.

'A friend who is very conveniently dead.'

'A circumstance which I would appreciate being given time to mourn!'

Beaumont got up from his chair and paced the room for a moment.

'So why did you go to Webb Street if not to discuss Caledonian Granite?' he asked. 'God knows you've had opportunity enough to buy him a drink without the trouble of going all the way to Hackney in the middle of the morning.'

Rupert's poker face deserted him for a moment. Unless he was a very good actor, something in Beaumont's question seemed to make him want to unveil a little truth.

'I . . . I wanted to help him,' Rupert said slowly and only after some thought. 'Truly. I mean it. Jim and I were friends, real friends, not like with the others.' There was a faraway look in Rupert's eyes as he spoke, almost as if he was speaking to himself. 'I never gave a toss about that fool Henry, of course, with his ridiculous quasi-socialist posturing. David was all right if a bit pretentious, and of course we all loved Robbo.'

Beaumont knew all of the people Rupert was talking about, but they did not concern him. He let Rupert go on, hoping that as he unburdened himself he might let something slip. Something that would give a clue as to what exactly had happened at Number 23 Webb Street.

'Jim was my friend,' Rupert went on. 'You have to understand that, Inspector. I am capable of friendship, you know. We'd roomed together. Laughed together. We'd had a hell of a nineties and an incredible noughties. We were the boys and I just couldn't stand the idea of old Lucky Jim Corby scarcely even being able to afford a bloody drink. I went back because I'd decided to help him out, if you really want to know.'

Rupert actually looked embarrassed as he said this. As if it was a sign of weakness, contrary to every principle of warped Darwinian elitism that he had always held so dear.

'I'd decided that for the first time in my life I was going to do something unselfish. The world knows I still have some money, it's no secret. Maybe I've got more than the world thinks. Not that you'll ever find it, Inspector. So I'd decided to offer to set Jim up again. Not here in Britain of course, even I couldn't cover his bloody debts. A man would very soon go broke himself pouring money into that particular pit. No, my idea was to get him to do a bunk, grab Monica and the kids and shoot through. I'd set him up somewhere nice and he could start trading again. Britain's fucked anyway. Everybody knows that. Basket case. Ugly people, ugly country. They deserve their bloody awful grubby politicians.'

'Do you think they deserved you, Lord Bennett?' Beaumont asked. 'The people who put their savings in your bank?'

Rupert looked at Beaumont and sneered.

'Screw 'em. Who cares?' he said.

Beaumont sneered back.

'I do,' he said.

'Well, bully for you, Mr Plod,' Rupert replied.

Beaumont realized that this wasn't getting him anywhere with his investigation.

'So you went to Webb Street to offer Jimmy Corby a new life abroad?'

'Yes. But he wouldn't take it. Said the time for running was over and he needed to face things head on. All he'd take was some cigarettes and a box of matches.' Rupert's eyes seemed for a moment to fill. 'I never should have given him the matches.'

'You gave him the matches?'

'We used to love smoking together. Stood on fifty pavements after the ban. But he gave up after he lost all his money. Realized for the first time how expensive they were, I suppose. We had a couple of smokes together with our drinks. He loved it, took down half a fag in a single drag. Used an old paint tin for an ashtray. Never crossed my mind there was any danger in it.'

Beaumont looked at Rupert long and hard. Lord Bennett was a ruthless man, there was no doubt about that. For his entire adult life he'd been creating disasters and then escaping the consequences. Had he done it again? Clearly he had gone to Webb Street on a mission to stop Corby speaking out about the illegal share tips.

But how had he intended to do it?

Was he merely going to try to buy Corby off with the offer of a new life abroad as he was half admitting? Or did Lord Bennett hope to silence Jimmy more permanently?

Truth less strange than fiction Monica knew it wasn't suicide.

Nor had it been an accident.

And it wasn't bloody murder either.

Because Jimmy wasn't dead.

'It's his story,' she wailed. 'He made up a whole story about a fake-death canoe scam and now he's gone and bloody done it!'

It was late evening, the children were in bed and Monica was sitting in the family room of the Notting Hill house with Inspector Beaumont.

'What story?' Beaumont asked.

Desperately trying to remain calm, Monica told him. The story about the dead tramp. The one about a bankrupt house owner using another body to fake his own death.

'Are you seriously suggesting, Mrs Corby,' Beaumont asked, 'that your husband would murder an unconscious tramp in order to claim life insurance?'

'That was just for the story! The tramp must have been dead already,' Monica said, trying not to cry. 'Jim's been waiting for him to die for ages. Obviously the silly fool found the corpse and grabbed his chance. Why didn't I work it out? He told me himself that he was going to dodge and weave and that he would make everything all right. I might have guessed he'd try to find a way out of all this shit . . . but not this! I should have let him sell that bloody fake Rolex. Why didn't I let him sell it?'

Inspector Beaumont was concerned.

'Understandably you're very upset, Mrs Corby, but you have to face the possibility that there's a much simpler explanation. We'll have the forensic report first thing in the morning, then we will at least be clear whether the corpse found at the house was-'

'I'm telling you it's not Jimmy,' Monica half shouted, fearful of waking the children but scarcely able to contain herself. 'It all fits. It's his story! Exactly the way he described it. We have to find him. We've got to stop him before he makes it any worse. He's in enough trouble already. He's hiding somewhere, I know he is. His mobile's been off since the fire. He's hiding out. I have to think!'

Beaumont tried to think too. Seldom in his career had he been completely thrown, but this was one such occasion. He had come round to tell Monica personally the circumstances of what he had been quite convinced was her husband's death, and the moment he had done so she had flown into this near-hysterical anguish claiming that Corby was still alive.

'What about the tramp's ID?' he said eventually. 'In Jimmy's story that was crucial. If you're right about what he's done he'll be using that.'

'Of course!' Monica said in a moment of hope.

'Do you know the tramp's name?' Beaumont asked.

'Yes! Yes I do,' Monica blurted. 'Bob. His name was Bob.'

'We'd need a surname,' Beaumont replied gently. 'We can't go looking for new bank accounts and passport applications for just Bob.'

'Oh . . . yes, of course,' Monica said. 'I'm afraid I don't know his surname.'

For a moment there was silence as both Monica and Beaumont wondered what they should do next.

Then they heard a key turn in the front-door lock.

Moments later Jimmy walked down the unlit stairs.

'Hello, Mon,' he said. 'Hello, Inspector. Blimey, what's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

Scrap metal After Rupert had left Jimmy at Number 23 on the morning of the fire, Jimmy had gone for a walk. He was pretty pissed and he needed to think.

Rupert's offer of a getaway, of a new start overseas in exchange for a silence that Jimmy had intended to keep anyway, was tempting to say the least.

Exciting. Intriguing. A second chance. A clean slate. Wow.

Jimmy reeled out of the house sucking on his cigarette and staggered down the steps, nearly falling over his bike as he did so. He thought he'd slammed the door behind him, but of course he hadn't. Whisky, beer and fags on an empty stomach at eleven in the morning had made him careless.

That was when old Bob the tramp had grabbed his chance. He'd smelt the solvents Jimmy had been using on his gloss brushes and he was after them. Instead he found the whisky and the cigarettes . . . and the matches.

Jimmy wandered up and down Hackney High Street for an hour or so, breathing deeply and sobering up, and by the time he headed back to Webb Street he had decided that he would not, under any circumstances, accept Rupert's offer of an escape route for exactly the same reason that he had decided not to turn Rupert in.

The reason he had explained to Monica the night before.

It was time to take responsibility for his own actions.

Things had consequences and they had to be faced.

Jimmy was therefore returning to Number 23 with the intention of getting back to work on renovating the house for his family to squat in, but by the time he got there the Fire Brigade were already in attendance and it was all too late.

Standing unnoticed at the back of the little crowd that was gathering, Jimmy realized that once again his old good luck had turned relentlessly bad.

'I didn't know anyone was in the burning house,' he explained to Monica and Inspector Beaumont. 'I just thought either me or Rupert had left a fag burning and that all my months of work were going up in smoke. I thought that yet again I'd blown it. That I couldn't even squat a building properly. So I just wandered off. I knew you weren't expecting me home till late, Monica. I've been doing fourteen-hour days anyway.

'I needed time to think. Time to get up the courage to tell you that our new home was ruined. So I went walking. My mobile had been in the house but I wouldn't have called anyway. I walked pretty much clean across London before starting for home. Just feeling stupid. Feeling that I'd messed up yet again. Of course now I understand what a truly horrible bloody palaver I've caused by wandering off like that. But I didn't know anyone was in the house, did I? And honestly, Mon, I never would have thought you'd think I'd do what you thought I did!'

'But Jimmy,' Monica protested, 'your story . . .'

'And your watch and wedding ring,' Inspector Beaumont said sternly. 'They were found on the corpse. They were actually on its wrist and finger. How did they get there?'

'I take them off to paint,' said Jimmy. 'I always do. Of course I do. Let me tell you, Mon, you couldn't clean paint off that watch, it'd take the gold colour straight off with it. Same with my Vegas ring. Paint solvents and cheap jewellery don't mix. Each morning I'd take them off and leave them on the mantelpiece, same place I left the whisky bottle today. I suppose Bob must have found them and grabbed them. Probably thought they'd be worth a shot or two of meths. He put them on. Poured himself a drink. Lit a cigarette surrounded by paint and solvents, threw away the match and . . . Poor sod. Poor bloody sod!'