No response.
He stopped shouting and started thinking. The doors to both boat houses had stood open. Why would anyone want to close them again? For one reason only: they knew he was inside and they meant to trap him there.
Kids, playing a prank? At this time of day he doubted it.
So what would it achieve, shutting him in here for a few hours until some member of the canoe club released him?
It was going to ruin his Saturday, that was all.
Bloody hell.
He hammered on the door and called out a few more times with an increasing sense that the effort was wasted. He'd do better to find his own means of escape. From what he could remember when the light was better, the place was well constructed. Kicking his way out through the wooden walls wasn't an option.
The floor? He stamped on it hard. It didn't feel solid. Probably it was raised on supports, as wooden buildings often are. If there was a space underneath, and he could prise up a couple of boards, he might squeeze out that way.
He guessed there were tools in here somewhere. They'd need to work on the canoes from time to time. Where would they keep them? Finding anything in virtual darkness was a challenge. He began groping his way around the trailer towards the far end, knocking over a couple of objects as he went.
Then he smelt something.
First he thought it must have come out of a pot he'd tipped over, maybe the stuff they used to waterproof the canoes. He was intent on looking for a toolbox so he didn't really care about odours. He didn't even register for some time that he was blinking more and his eyelids were smarting. Several minutes passed before it dawned on him that the smell was getting stronger.
Even so, he continued to fumble his way along the back wall of the boat house. He found some paddles and wetsuits, but nothing so useful as a screwdriver or a crowbar.
His eyes were hurting.
Then he felt his feet getting warmer through his shoes. Crouching down, he pressed his hand against the floorboards and they were warm.
A faint sound seemed to be coming from under the boards, something between a hiss and a wheeze.
Christ, he thought, there's a fire under here. I'm trapped in a wooden building that's going up in flames any second.
He knew enough about the action of fire to understand that the smoke and noxious gases already filling the boat house would kill him before the fire incinerated him. He was spluttering and coughing.
Forget the floorboards, he thought. There's only one way out of here now and that's through the roof. He grabbed a canoe paddle and reached out for the trailer. Its superstructure was a framework designed to support three tiers of canoes. If he could get to the top he had a fair chance of attacking the roof with the paddle.
He grasped the metal side bars and started hauling himself up. The trapped smoke would be thicker up there, but this was the only option. With agility born of desperation, he made it to the highest level and swung the paddle blindly above his head. It made contact. Heavy contact. The roof was within reach, but it felt as solid as the floor.
He tried again. There was the sound of wood splintering and for a moment his hopes soared, then plunged. The end of the paddle was breaking up, not the boards across the roof.
Below him real flames had penetrated the floor. In a frenzy he thrust the broken paddle repeatedly against the same spot.
He guessed the boards were linked by tongue and groove, which was why they resisted the hammering they were getting. More splinters from the paddle fell on his head.
He paused to gather himself for a greater effort.
Bob Naylor, this is your life.
Go for it.
The wood rasped, as if there was movement. After several more thumps the board he was striking gave a little. Another crack and it eased upwards and tore through the felt covering. He caught a glimpse of blue sky. More furious blows detached a second board. Smoke was funnelling through the gap.
He pulled himself higher, teetering on the top rail of the trailer to get a handhold in the gap. With a huge effort he dragged himself up and through the roof and scrambled out into the daylight. For a moment he lay on the incline taking in gulps of fresh air. Then a flame ripped through the space beside him and he slithered down and dropped to the ground and sprinted across the turf to safety.
Even now, when a huge brown plume of smoke was defining the source of the fire for miles around, Bob could see nobody. Whoever had slammed and bolted that door had already quit the scene.
Bob decided to do the same. When you're in shock and filthy with smoke your first instinct is to get home. You're not ready for questions and explanations.
Then he spotted two teenage girls cycling along the path towards the boat house. He stepped out of view. Canoeists, he decided. They were in shorts and sweaters.
He walked around the other side of the blazing building and glanced back. The girls had stopped and one of them was using a mobile. It wouldn't be long before the fire service and police got here.
He legged it back to where he'd left his car in Canal Wharf Road. Inside ten minutes he was home taking a shower.
Over a strong black coffee, while the washing machine worked on his clothes, he tried to make sense of the experience. It all stemmed from Miss Snow's caller, the mystery man who had offered the proof that Maurice was not an arsonist. It was safe to assume, wasn't it, that the call was a trap? Miss Snow herself was supposed to go to the boat house at eight.
Was what happened the result of Bob's turning up instead? A fit of anger that Miss Snow had broken a confidence and sent someone in her place? He didn't think so. The fire in the boat house must have involved some preparation. It had started from outside, under the floor, in the space between the ground and the base of the hut. To get a fire going there, you'd need more than a struck match. You'd want combustible material like paper or oil- soaked rags. The stuff would have been in place before eight, ready to ignite when the victim was inside.
If Miss Snow had gone to the boat house she wouldn't have escaped. She wouldn't have had the strength to knock a hole in the roof. She was the intended victim, and it would have worked.
Why Miss Snow? He hadn't the faintest. Was she a threat to anyone? He couldn't see why.
Was it right to tell her she'd had a lucky escape? Bob didn't think so. The poor old duck was jumpy enough already, without finding out a killer was after her. Still, in a day or two she was going to read in the local paper that the boat house had gone up in flames, and she'd wet herself then.
For the time being, he'd tell no one. Except, maybe, Thomasine. He trusted Thomasine and she was his expert on the circle.
'What a crazy thing to do,' was her reaction when he phoned.
'You can say that again.'
'I meant you, going to the boat house.'
'I was doing someone a good turn.'
'You sure you're okay?'
'A few bruises.'
'And you haven't told anyone?'
'You're the first. I'm pretty certain I wasn't seen, except by the tosser who tried to murder me.'
'Oh, Bob — what a thing to happen. You must be cursing the day you joined the circle. No one is going to blame you if you walk away.'
'No chance,' he said. 'I'm going to find out who did this, and why.'
'You don't have much to go on.'
'Miss Snow said it was a bloke who phoned. That's a start.'
'And she didn't recognise the voice?'
'He would have disguised it, wouldn't he?'
'Are you thinking it's one of the men in the circle?' She hesitated, then said with certainty, 'Tudor.'
'Why Tudor?'
