His door opened behind him and Caro stuck her head in.

‘I’m just off to pick up Jade and then collect Phoebe,’ she said. ‘Be back in about an hour. Anything you need while I’m out?’

‘Pick up Jade?’ he said, puzzled. ‘What do you mean? And Phoebe?’

‘Yes, picking Jade up from her riding lesson – then we’re going into Brighton to collect Phoebe from her parents.’

‘Riding lesson?’

‘Yes.’

He shot a glance through the window towards the lake. There was no sign of Jade or Phoebe.

‘You’re taking Jade or you’re picking her up?’

‘I’m picking her up.’ She gave him a strange look. ‘Are you all right, Ols?’

‘All right? I – yes – about as all right as it’s possible to be at the moment. Why?’

‘We talked about it a couple of days ago – I told you I was going to try to book her into a riding school in Clayton, just a few miles away.’

He swivelled his chair to the left and looked out of the window again towards the lake. Jade and Phoebe had been playing there just a couple of minutes ago, he’d been watching them. Was the start of a nervous breakdown? Or something even worse?

‘When – when did you take Jade to the riding place?’

Caro looked at her watch. ‘Over an hour ago. I’m going to have to rush, I’m late.’

‘Drive safely,’ he said, lamely. ‘You’re picking up Phoebe, too?’

‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

‘She’s not – already – sort of here or anything?’

Caro frowned. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘No!’

‘You’re behaving very oddly. I’ll see you in a bit, OK?’

He was staring back out through the window at the vast lawn, which he would have to mow tomorrow, and at the ducks on the lake. There was no sign of Jade or Phoebe. No children. No humans. Nothing.

He’d imagined the vicar this morning. Now his daughter and her friend?

His computer made a barely audible ping. An incoming email.

He hit the keyboard and instantly held his breath as he saw the name. It was from Cholmondley. Perhaps, he thought, with hope momentarily rising, the classic car dealer had found out the source of the toxic email sent to him earlier, and was writing now to apologize for his outburst? After all, he was a businessman, and however angry he might have been, Cholmondley would know he had to keep his website up and running – and for that he needed him.

Then, as he opened the email, his heart sank even lower.

There was a short message from Cholmondley at the top, with a longer one from himself beneath, sent from his personal email address, with his electronic signature, and timed and dated just over thirty minutes ago.

Sent from this computer.

Cholmondley

I imagine you’ve been waiting all day for a grovelling apology. Well, so sorry not to oblige, dear boy, but I just wanted to let you know that I stand by every word in my earlier email. I despise you, you arrogant little shit, with your natty bow tie. Just found out about your criminal record, too. Tut, tut, tut! You kept that one a secret, didn’t you? My oh my, you are a dark horse! Bad boy, you got caught turning the odometers back on second-hand cars. Made to sit on the Naughty Step for that one, weren’t you? Eighteen months in Ford Prison. I’m afraid I cannot take the reputational risk of dealing with someone of your background.

I have sent you in a separate email all the codes and files you will need for someone else to take over the management of your website in a smooth – quite seamless – transition.

Oliver Harcourt,

CEO, Harcourt Digital Solutions Ltd

Once again, he saw to his horror that it was copied to the same wide number of Cholmondley’s rival dealers. And all the files for the website, which would have been the only leverage he had to get paid by the man, had been handed over. So now he had no hold over him. And reading Cholmondley’s reply, it was even clearer than this morning that he would never see one penny of the money he was owed.

Dear Mr Harcourt

This email is outrageous. I will hold you personally liable for any sales I lose through your vile and deeply libellous communications today. For the record I’ve never been charged with, or convicted of, any of the offences you allege. I have no criminal record and I’ve never been to jail. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers on Monday and you will be a very sorry man.

C. Cholmondley

44

Saturday, 19 September

Ollie sat, stunned, staring at the email. He was utterly bewildered and feeling sick deep inside. And close to tears. Just what the hell was happening? He had imagined the vicar; he had imagined Jade and her friend in the garden. Was he now sending emails that he had no recollection of? Should he go and see a doctor?

Another email pinged in, and his spirits sank even lower still when he saw it was from Bhattacharya.

He could scarcely bring himself to open it. His hands hovered over the keypad, his fingers trembling. His whole body was shaking. Normally when he was stressed he’d go for a run or a bike ride. But he felt too sapped right now to do anything other than sit and think and stare.

Chris Webb would be able to find out where the emails had really come from, wouldn’t he? That would be the solution. Get him to show they were being sent from someone outside, who was using this address, and then he could go back to Cholmondley and Bhattacharya.

Unless.

But he didn’t want to go there. Not down that line of thought.

He did not want to entertain the possibility that he might have been the sender.

Or someone or something here in his office with him.

He looked up at the ceiling with a start, as if he again sensed something there, looking down, mocking him.

Then he opened the Indian restaurateur’s email. It was every bit as bad as he expected. A litany of food hygiene regulations each of his restaurants had allegedly broken. And a livid reply from Bhattacharya.

For a moment he thought he was going to throw up at his desk. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to think clearly. Then he dialled Chris Webb.

‘Chris, I have an absolute emergency here. There have been more emails to those same two clients, and they’ve been copied to other potential clients. You’ve got to help me, we have to do something – my business is being destroyed.’

‘More emails?’

Ollie could hear a roar in the background, as if Webb was watching a football or perhaps rugby match on television. ‘Yes, in the past hour – while I’ve been sitting in front of my bloody computer. I just don’t know what’s going on. You’ve got to help me, please, could you come over?’

‘OK.’

‘I’d really appreciate that. How soon can you come?’

‘I’ll be with you in about forty-five minutes. Meantime, what I suggest you do is disconnect from the internet – or, even better, switch it off completely until I get there. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, right away, thank you.’

Ollie stared at the keyboard, then at the screen, as if scared something new might have appeared while he’d been talking to the computer guru. He did as instructed, selected Shut Down from the Apple menu and clicked on it.

He waited until the screen was dark and the machine was silent, then stood up, went downstairs and out into the garden, feeling desperately in need of some fresh air to try to clear his head. The sun in the clear blue sky barely registered, nor the warmth of the air, or anything around him as he walked down towards the lake, his heart like a massive weight inside his chest. He felt as if all the energy had been sucked out of him and he was just a dark, discarded husk.