17

I spent much of the night downloading Alex's files and e-mails onto my laptop using the Internet connection in my mother's office.

I had let myself into the kitchen silently using Ian's key. The dogs had been unperturbed by their nocturnal visitor, sniffing my hand as I'd passed them and then going back to sleep, happy that I was friend, not foe.

I worked solely by the light of the computer screen and left everything exactly as I'd found it. I didn't know why I still thought it was necessary for my presence to be a secret from my mother, but I wasn't yet ready to try to explain to her what had been going on.

It might also have been safer for me if she didn't know where I was.

After I had left Julie to drive herself home in the white BMW, I'd taken Ian's car slowly up the driveway of Greystone Stables. My two telltale sticks on their stones were broken. Someone had been up to the stable yard, someone who would now know I wasn't dead, someone who might try to kill me again. But they would have to find me first.

I slept fitfully on Ian's sofa, and he left me there snoozing when he went out to morning stables at half past six on Monday morning.

By the time he returned at about noon, I had read through all of Alex's downloaded information on my laptop. Most of it was boring, but amongst the dross, there were some real gems, and three standout sparkling diamonds.

Maybe I wouldn't need to use my lever after all.

One of the diamonds was that Alex, it transpired, was not only the accountant for Rock Bank (Gibraltar) Ltd but also one of the signatories of the company's bank account, and best of all, I had downloaded all the passwords and user names that he needed to access the account online.

I would try to log in to the account tonight, I thought, when I had access to the Internet from my mother's office.

The other diamonds were the e-mails sent by Jackson Warren to Alex Reece concerning me, the first a message sent on the night of Isabella's kitchen supper, and the second after the races at Newbury on the day Scientific had won. The first had been sent in a fit of anger, and the second as a warning, but nevertheless, it amazed me how lax people could be with e-mail security.

In the army, all messages were encrypted before sending so that they were not readable by the enemy. Even cell phones were not permitted to be used in Afghanistan in case the Taliban were listening to the transmissions and gaining information that could be useful either in a tactical way or simply to undermine the morale of the troops.

No parents, having been called by their soldier offspring one evening from a cell telephone in Helmand province, would welcome then receiving a second call, this time from an English-speaking member of the Taliban, who would inform them that their son was going to be targeted in the morning, and that he would be returning home to them in a wooden box.

It had happened.

Yet here was a supposedly sensible person, Jackson Warren, sending clear text messages by e-mail for all to read. Well, for me to read anyway.

"What the bloody hell do you think you were doing talking so openly in front of Thomas Forsyth?" Jackson had written soon after storming out of the supper. "His mother was one of those who invested heavily in our little scheme. KEEP YOUR BLOODY LIPS SEALED-DO YOU HEAR?"

Capital letters in an e-mail were equivalent to shouting, and I could vividly recall the way Jackson had stormed out of the room that night. He would certainly have been shouting.

The second e-mail was calmer but no less direct, and had been sent by Jackson to Alex at five o'clock on the afternoon of the races. He must have written it as soon as he arrived home from Newbury.

"Thomas Forsyth told me this afternoon that he wants to contact you. I am making arrangements to ensure that he cannot. However, if he manages to be in contact with you before my arrangements are in position, you are hereby warned NOT to speak with him or communicate with him in any way. This is extremely important, especially in the light of the company business this coming week."

I knew only too well what arrangements Jackson had subsequently taken to stop me from speaking with Alex-my shoulders still ached from them. But what, I wondered, had been the company business? Perhaps all would be revealed by access to the company bank account later.

So how are the horses?" I asked Ian, as he slumped down onto the brown sofa and switched on the television.

"They're all right," he said with a mighty sigh.

"What's wrong, then?" I asked. "Would you like me to leave?"

"As you like," he said, seemingly uninterested in the conversation as he flicked through the channels with the remote control.

"Bad day at the office?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "You could say that."

I said nothing. He'd tell me if he wanted to.

He did.

"When I took this job I thought it would be more as an assistant trainer rather than just as 'head lad.' That's what Mrs. Kauri implied. She told me she doesn't have an assistant, as such, so I thought the role of head lad would be more important to her than to other trainers."

He paused, perhaps remembering that I was Mrs. Kauri's son.

"And?" I prompted.

"And nothing," he said. He turned off the TV and swiveled around on the sofa to face me. "I was wrong, that's all. It turns out she doesn't have an assistant because she can't delegate anything to anybody. She even treats me the same as one of the young boys straight out from school. She tells the staff to do things that I should be telling them to do, and often it is directly opposite to what I've already said. I feel worthless and undermined."

Story of my life, I thought.

At least, it had been the story of my life until I'd left home to join the army. It seemed to me that Ian was already on the road to somewhere else. It was a shame. I'd seen him working with the horses, and even I could see that he was good, calming the younger ones and standing no nonsense from the old hands. He also had a passion for them, and he longed for them to win. Losing Ian Norland would be a sad day for Kauri House Stables.

"Have you been looking?" I asked.

"There's a possibility of a new stable opening that's quite exciting," he said, suddenly more alive. "It's some way off yet, but I'm going to keep my options open. But don't you go telling your mother. She'd be furious."

He was right, she would be furious. She demanded absolute loyalty from everyone around her, but sadly, she repaid it in short measure, and she wasn't about to change now.

"Which stables?" I asked.

"Rumor has it that one of the trainers in the village is going to open up a second yard, and he'll be needing a new assistant to run it. I thought I might apply."

"Which trainer?" I asked.

"Ewen Yorke," he said. "Apparently, he's buying Greystone Stables."

He'd have to fix the broken pane in the tack-room window.

The statements of the bank account of Rock Bank (Gibraltar)

Ltd were most revealing.

I had spent the afternoon rereading all the e-mails that I had downloaded from Alex Reece's computer inbox and sent-items folder, as well as the Gibraltar folder. Quite a few of the e-mails were communications back and forth with someone named Sigurd Bellido, the senior cashier at the real Gibraltar bank that held the Rock Bank Ltd account, discussing the transfer of funds in and out. Unfortunately, there were no references to account names and numbers from which, and to which, the transfers were made, although strangely they all discussed the ongoing health of Mr. Bellido's mother-in-law.

When, at two in the morning, I logged on to the online banking system in my mother's office, I could see that the recent transfers discussed with Mr. Bellido were reflected in the various changes to the account balance.