11

The first thing Matt hit, when he parted company with Maple Tree, was the rump of the horse who, by swerving, had sealed his fate. Rebounding, he dropped down behind the two horses and, because of the nature of the fall, wasn't able to tuck and roll, but landed heavily on his side, knocking the wind from his lungs and jarring every bone in his body. Lying helpless and vulnerable, he could do no more than close his eyes as the other runners touched down all around him, their aluminium-tipped hooves punching four-inch holes into the turf.

It was a testament to the effort that horses make to avoid riders on the ground that none of those deadly hooves scored a direct hit on Matt's sprawling figure. Amidst the ground-shaking chaos of noise and movement, something grazed his shoulder; he heard someone utter a shocked 'Christ!' and then the field was over and gone, like an express train thundering away down a track, taking urgency with it and leaving tranquillity in its wake.

As often, the whole experience was too swift even to justify relief at its passing and, as peace returned, Matt lay still, doing a mental inventory of his extremities. If they all retained sensation and movement, then the greatest horror was averted and all else could be faced and overcome.

They all did.

Matt opened his eyes to a vista of lush green, and supposed that he would have to try breathing at some point, but, just at that moment, it felt as though tight steel bands had been placed around his ribs. Footsteps swished towards him through the grass and a stout brown shoe appeared in his field of vision.

'Are you all right, sir?'

Matt nodded, but his attempt to tell the newcomer that he was merely winded came out as a hoarse whisper, so he drew in a painful half-breath and tried again.

'Just winded. Give me a moment.'

'Nasty fall, that.'

'They're never much fun,' Matt told the shoe, and, after a couple more shallow breaths, felt equal to the challenge of sitting up, aided by unseen hands.

Undoing the chinstrap on his helmet, he thanked the stout middle-aged lady who was crouching by his side; confirmed, in answer to her question, that there were no bones broken; and, with her help, presently made it to his feet.

* * *

The jokers in the weighing room had a field day.

'Trying out for the circus, Mojo?' one asked. 'Neat trick that. Think I saw the Cossacks do it, but, of course, they landed standing up.'

'I thought he was going to sit up behind me,' Tam Connelly reported. 'I mean, I know I had a good horse, but really a jockey should stick with the one he started on, don't you think?'

'He likes the course here so much he wants to keep getting up close and personal with it,' another voice suggested.

'No, I reckon he's got something going with one of the sheilas in the medical room,' Bully said.

'Yeah, yeah. Keep trying – you're almost funny,' Matt told them.

'So what did Westerby say?' Rollo asked, coming over. 'What excuse did he give for not having put a breast-girth on that animal? If ever a horse needed one . . .'

'I haven't seen him yet,' Matt said grimly. 'Surprisingly, he had made himself scarce when I got back, bloody man!'

'You're really not having much luck lately, are you? I saw that stuff in the paper yesterday. That was bang out of line. You should make them print a retraction.'

'Trouble is, it was basically true,' Matt said gloomily.

'You're kidding! Even the stuff about Brewer?' Rollo was astounded. 'I can't believe that! Ask anyone and they'd have said you had the most solid job in racing; especially since you took up with the governor's daughter. What's the matter with the man?'

'I have an idea it has something to do with our friend Kenning. I'm not exactly flavour of the month with him and you know what a toad-eater Brewer is when there's a title involved.'

Rollo shook his head.

'It still doesn't make sense. Brewer might be desperate for recognition, but he's not stupid. He knows damn well he was lucky to get you. Surely he wouldn't jock you off, even for Kenning?'

Matt shrugged. He was feeling sore and the loss of Cantablay still weighed on his mind.

'Brewer doesn't like it that I'm trying to help Jamie out. I think perhaps he's worried people will think I'm guilty by association. He says I haven't got my mind on the job, and, of course, it's sod's law that I'm having crappy luck at the moment.'

From the doorway, an official called the jockeys for the next race and Rollo had to go. Within moments, the weighing room had almost emptied, the heart of it going out with the chattering crowd of men bound for the paddock. Matt sat on the bench, half changed into his civvies, feeling drained of energy and purpose.

'I'm not surprised your saddle slipped.' It was Mikey who spoke from the other side of the room. 'I rode him a couple of times for Westerby last year and I'm sure he had a breast-girth on. You'd want one, wouldn't you, with a big front on him like that?'

Matt looked up.

'Are you sure? For Westerby?'

Mikey nodded.

'Yeah, I'm sure.'

'Right.' Matt stood up and reached for his shirt. 'I think I'm going to have a few words with Mick Westerby.'

As it happened, Matt's confrontation with the trainer had to wait, for, after asking a number of people, he was told that Westerby, with perhaps some precognition of trouble, had prudently already left the racecourse. Frustrated, Matt drew some comfort from the fact that Henfield was a two-day meeting and he knew that Westerby had a couple of runners the next day, one of them being the much vaunted Peacock Penny, whom Matt was booked to ride. Taking his leave of Leonard, who was still plainly very cut up over Cantablay's death, Matt eased himself stiffly behind the wheel of the MR2 and headed for home, thinking, as he did so, that the events of the day would have Dave Rossiter of the Daily Standard rubbing his hands in glee. He really wasn't looking forward to reading the sports pages the next morning.

Weighing out for the first of two races he was booked for the next day, it seemed to Matt as though he hadn't been away. By the time he'd got home the previous night, Kendra had gone out with Frances for the evening, leaving a curry simmering on the Aga, and, after he'd eaten, Matt had fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the TV with Taffy curled up next to him.

After coming home in the early hours, Kendra had still been in bed when he'd left for Rockfield that morning, although she had lifted her face for a sleepy kiss when he'd taken her a cup of tea. Matt got the impression that the company of her sister had done her a lot of good, and he left the house in a more positive mood than he had for several days. He felt, as long as he and Kennie were OK, he could face most things, a conviction that even survived Rossiter's best efforts in the daily sports round-up.

Now, at Henfield, it was an overcast day with a biting cold wind, and when, in due course, the jockeys were called into the paddock, he found Roy Emmett huddled in a sheepskin coat, with matching hat and gloves, and a red scarf wound about his neck. In spite of this, his eyes were watering behind his bottle-bottom glasses and his nose, which rivalled the scarf for hue, sported a glistening dewdrop. There was no sign of his partner, a tall, austere-looking man who rarely came to the races, and neither was Leonard in attendance, but Matt knew that Rockfield had two horses in the race, so the trainer was presumably with the owner of the other.

Matt approached Emmett with a degree of reserve, unsure as to whether he was one of the owners from whom Brewer claimed to have received complaints, but he needn't have worried.

When Emmett saw him, he beamed, the dewdrop wobbling dangerously as they shook hands.

'Good to see you, Matt. How are you?'

'Do you want my opinion or the one everyone read in the paper this morning?'

'Never take much notice of the newspapers, to tell you the truth. They're never happy unless they're raking up trouble. Giving you a hard time, are they? What's that about, then?'

'Oh, nothing I can't handle,' Matt said, devoutly hoping it was the truth. 'How's Coneflower today? Not getting too hot, I hope.' If Coneflower had a fault, it was a tendency to work himself into a lather before he even got onto the track, thereby wasting precious energy, but, as he was a tenacious stayer, it wasn't too big a problem.

'No, he's fine,' Emmett said. 'Shouldn't be surprised if he was growing out of that business. Here he is now.'

As he spoke, the good-looking black gelding came into view, stalking round on his long clean-boned legs beside his handler, looking every inch the quintessential steeplechaser and, as Emmett had said, showing no sign of sweating up.

'We've got a good chance today, don't you think?' he continued, with barely a pause. 'I spoke to John a minute ago and he says he's been working well on the gallops. In fact, I went over to watch him work last week and he certainly looked the part . . .'

Matt let Emmett talk, listening with half an ear whilst he scanned the circling runners. Westerby also had a horse in this race but, so far, the trainer hadn't made an appearance in the paddock. When Matt finally identified his runner by the number he carried, he saw that the blond lad who had led Maple Tree round the day before had been replaced by a pale girl with straggling dark hair and an eyebrow ring.

The bell went for the jockeys to mount and, switching his attention back to the matter in hand, Matt accepted Emmett's good luck wishes and went towards Coneflower to meet Leonard and receive a leg-up into the saddle.

After the disasters of the day before, Matt was desperate for a good showing, and the black horse didn't let him down. He was a front runner who not only stayed the distance, but could also be relied upon to produce an extra burst of speed if challenged in the final furlong. On this occasion it wasn't necessary. By the time they rounded the bend into the home straight for the second time, Coneflower's ground-eating stride had left the other twelve runners struggling in his wake, and Matt was able to let him ease down towards the finishing post, which he crossed at not much more than a canter, six lengths clear of his nearest rival.

He rode into the winner's circle feeling triumph and relief in equal measures – perhaps his luck was on the turn at last.

Mick Westerby was still absent when Matt went out to ride Peacock Penny, and he was met at the entrance to the paddock by a wiry, middle-aged woman in a tired tweed suit, who introduced herself as Sue Westerby, Mick's wife, and walked with him towards the centre of the oval enclosure.

'So where's Mick today?' he asked casually.

'Called away, I'm afraid. Other business. You'll have to make do with me.' She gave him a thin smile, and Matt got the impression that, although Mick was the licensed trainer, as his assistant, his wife might well be the one who wore the trousers in the partnership.

'Oh, I'd rather hoped for a word with him.'

'About yesterday,' she stated. 'I'm not surprised. Bloody shambles! Can't apologise enough. It's been dealt with.'

It was quite remarkable, Matt reflected, that someone could utter such conciliatory words whilst not conveying the impression that they were sorry in any way, shape, or form. She obviously didn't intend to enlighten him as to how it had been dealt with, and he decided the girl with the eyebrow ring might be a softer target.

They were now drawing close to a serious-looking, bespectacled young man who looked painfully self-conscious standing on his own in the centre of the grass with faces crowding the rails.

'Let me introduce Kevin Rouse. His father owns Peacock Penny,' Sue Westerby said smoothly, producing the professional smile once again, and Matt realised that she had come to meet him early because she was wary of what he might say in front of the owner.

'Hello, Kevin. Nice to meet you.' Matt put his hand forward with a friendly smile. 'Do you come racing often?'

'This is my first time,' he replied, and Matt could see that, despite the suit and greatcoat, he was maybe only sixteen or seventeen. Wealthy father, buying a couple of racehorses as a status symbol, he surmised. That would explain the widely divergent abilities of the two horses he owned. Whoever had sold him Khaki Kollin had seen him coming, Matt thought sadly, but the mare, who was coming round in front of them now, had been a lucky acquisition.

'She's a fine-looking mare,' he told the lad – which wasn't strictly true, as she was a little light-framed and leggy – but Kevin was clearly pleased that Matt liked her.

Once Matt was on board Peacock Penny, Sue was obliged to drop back and watch with her owner as the stable girl led the mare once more round the paddock and off down the path to the track.

'So, where's the lad who was here yesterday?' Matt asked, as soon as he was settled into the saddle. 'Tall. Sandy hair.'

The girl glanced up at him.

'Rick Smiff?' she asked.

'Could have been. I got the impression he was maybe head lad.'

'Was.'

'Sorry?'

'Was head lad,' she said, with emphasis.

'Oh. So what happened?'

'Got the boot, didn't he?'

'Because of what happened yesterday with Maple Tree?' Matt could see Sue watching intently as they passed and drew no little satisfaction from the fact that she would probably have given anything to shut the girl up.

'Yeah, that's right. The Governor said it was Rick's fault but . . .' She stopped, maybe belatedly remembering who she was talking to.

'But you don't think it was?' Matt prompted.

'I ain't sayin' nuffin'.'

'But you already have,' Matt pointed out reasonably. 'What were you just about to say? Come on, I won't tell on you.'

'She's watchin' me!' the girl hissed. 'I'll bloody cop it if she thinks I said anyfing!'

'So why don't you think it was Rick's fault?'

They'd turned down the path away from the paddock now and, maybe encouraged by the added distance between her and the Governor's wife, the girl gave in.

'Well, Rick's real careful, you know? All I'm sayin' is, I can't see him forgetting somefing like that.'

'Do you know where I can find Rick?' Matt enquired, as they approached the track.

'Look, you're going to get me into trouble.'

'Please, it's important.'

'What d'you want him for, then? 'Cos he's had enough grief as it is.'

'I'm not going to give him a hard time, trust me.'

'I dunno,' she said doubtfully, and Matt was left wondering whether she didn't know where Rick was to be found or whether she was undecided about whether to tell Matt.

With practised fluidity she released the lead rein and stepped away as the mare bounded forward.

Matt took up the slack in the reins, shifted his weight over Peacock Penny's withers, and put the previous day's drama out of his mind as he switched into work mode.

Less than twenty minutes later he was back, patting the little mare's sweaty neck as she slowed to a trot, having beaten a field of sixteen older and larger horses in a tight finish after one and a half circuits of the hurdles track.

The pale girl came out onto the track to meet him with a huge grin on her face, and whether it was because Matt had brought home the laurels or just because she'd had time to think, he didn't know, but, as she clipped the lead rein in place once more, she looked up and said, 'Rick's here, on the course. You'll probably find him near the bookies on the rails, but I never said that, OK?'

Matt smiled.

'OK. And thanks.'

The business of photographs, weighing in, and the presentation of the prizes all seemed to take an eternity, and, for once, Matt was glad that he had no more rides that day and was able to go in search of the unfortunate 'Rick Smiff'. Even so, that delay was made bearable by the excitement on the face of Peacock Penny's young owner and, when Rouse was borne off by the trainer's wife to further celebrate the win, Matt found himself thinking it was a shame that such a nice lad had landed in the clutches of such as the Westerbys.

Matt's progress through the crowds around the rails was hampered by a number of people wanting to congratulate him on his win. Normally, he could get by without being recognised when in everyday clothes, but, in this case, someone he knew quite well had precipitated the flurry of attention by calling his name far louder than was necessary and soon he was signing autographs left, right, and centre. Maintaining positive public relations was a part of the job he usually accepted with good grace, knowing how important it was for the advancement of his career, but today he heartily wished all the smiling faces would go and find someone else to pester; the more so because, if Rick had been anywhere nearby, he would now almost certainly have disappeared.

When the next race got underway, the crowd's attention was quickly transferred to the track, leaving Matt free to search for Westerby's ex-head lad, but this wasn't helped by the fact that he wasn't 100 per cent certain that he would even recognise the man if he did see him.

To the accompaniment of a crescendo of excited shouting, the race ran its course and people turned away from the rails, either joining the satisfied queues in front of the bookies or screwing up their betting slips in disgust. Matt began to think Rick had seen him coming, and was on the point of conceding defeat when, in one of the bookies' queues, he saw his quarry.

He waited until Rick had collected his winnings and was folding the notes into a back pocket, then stepped forward and spoke his name.

Rick glanced round enquiringly but, when he realised who had spoken, the expression turned to one of dismay. He put his hands up as if to ward Matt off and said, 'Look, I don't want any trouble. I'm sorry, OK? It was a stupid mistake.'

'But whose mistake was it? Yours or Westerby's?'

Rick's grey eyes narrowed and he cast a wary look to either side, as if checking that Matt was alone.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that it's a pretty sizeable mistake to make, and, call me suspicious, but it seems strange that neither of you noticed that Maple Tree wasn't wearing his breast-girth. Who tacked him up?'

'Er . . . me. I did.'

'On your own?'

'Well, the Governor was pretty busy . . .' Rick's voice faded away uncertainly.

'Yeah, it doesn't sound very likely, does it?' Matt remarked. 'What could be more important on a race day than the horses? Why don't you tell me what really happened?'

Rick looked round again with a touch of desperation and, for a split second, Matt thought he was going to run.

'Please, Rick – I don't want to make trouble for you, I promise you. I just want to know what actually happened. Westerby saddled the horse, didn't he?'

'No, it was me.'

'I don't believe you. I think Westerby did it, and now he's blaming you. But what I don't understand is why you're letting him.'

Rick sighed and looked skyward, his face contorted by indecision, but finally, it seemed, honesty won out.

'I was there.'

'But it was Westerby who saddled the horse, yes?'

'Yes.'

'So he left off the breast-girth, and I'm guessing it wasn't an accident,' Matt said, taking care not to show the surge of triumph he felt. 'You must have noticed. Didn't you say something?'

'Yeah, I did . . .'

'So, what reason did he give?'

'He said . . .' Rick hesitated. 'Do you want to know exactly?'

'Yes, please.'

'Urn – he said, "We're gonna give that arrogant bastard the ride of his life!" I wasn't happy about it, but what could I do? He's the Guv'nor. Was,' he corrected.

You could have reported him to the stewards or – at the very least – warned me, Matt thought, but, realistically, he wouldn't have expected it; the backlash would have been huge. He remembered the head lad's unhappy face as he led Maple Tree round before the race.

'We? Are you're sure he said we?'

Rick nodded.

'Yeah, 'cos I remember thinking – Count me out, psycho! I don't want no part of this. I knew how dangerous it could be, see?'

'What I don't understand is why you were still prepared to tell lies to protect Westerby, when he sacked you and left you to carry the can?'

Rick looked at his shoes, his sandy fringe flopping over his eyes.

'I got a police record, see?' he mumbled. 'Nicked a couple of cars when I was a nipper. The Guv'nor said, if I told anyone about the girth, he'd put it about that he caught me stealing. So then no one would believe me and I'd never get another job neither, would I?'

'OK, then, if he knew you wouldn't blow the whistle, why did he sack you?'

'Well, to keep you off his back,' Rick replied. 'When he saw you get straight up from that fall, he got in his car and went home. You couldn't see him for dust.'

'Smart move,' Matt said.

He looked at Rick thoughtfully and then decided to back another hunch.

'Does Westerby have any connections with Lord Kenning? I mean, has he ever been to the yard or have you seen them talking recently?'

Rick pursed his lips and shook his head.

Matt wasn't overly surprised. It had been a long shot but, even so, he had to admit to a faint twinge of disappointment; it would have explained a lot.

'OK, never mind . . .' he started to say, but Rick interrupted him.

'Now you say that – I never saw him, but the Guv'nor did say something, a couple of days ago . . . He was looking right pleased with himself, and he told me, if I ever saw Lord Kenning on the racecourse, I should mind my Ps and Qs, 'cos, if we played our cards right, Kenning might be sending us some horses – to train, I mean.'

'Did he now?' Matt breathed, hardly able to believe his good luck.

'That's what the Guv'nor said, but I thought he was barking! I mean, Kenning was never going to send us anyfing in a million years, was he? But the Guv seemed to believe it anyway. 'E was like the cat that got the sodding cream.'

'Did you win much?'

Rick was momentarily caught off guard.

'Sorry?'

'The last race – did you get a good price?'

'Not bad, I s'pose.' He patted the pocket where he'd put the notes. 'I had some on Peacock Penny, too. She's a smashing filly.'

'She is that,' Matt agreed. 'Look, I'm not going to offer you any money here – there are too many eyes, and it could get us both into trouble, but, if you get stuck anytime, give me a shout, OK?'

Rick looked taken aback.

'OK,' he said slowly. 'But I'm not telling anyone else what I told you. Especially not the police.'

Rick's expression clearly showed his opinion of the police and Matt sympathised with him. Bartholomew hadn't come over as a people-person in his dealings with Matt; with someone who already had a record, he imagined he'd be ten times worse.

'No police,' he agreed.

'So, what are you going to do now?' Rick asked. 'Are you going after Westerby?'

'I'm not sure. Not right away, anyway.'

'But you won't tell him what I said . . .'

'I won't tell him,' Matt promised. 'But where can I find you again – if I need to?'

'My mate runs a pub, just down the road from here – The Blue Lion. He'll always get a message to me.'

Pleased as he was with the information Rick had given him, Matt was under no illusions about whether it would prove easy to make use of. If it came down to the word of an ex-employee with a criminal record, against that of his former employer and a much-respected peer of the realm, it didn't take a Mensa candidate to figure out where the authorities would choose to place their belief. Even so, Matt hugged the tale of Kenning's possible involvement in Westerby's sabotage to him like a hot-water bottle on a cold night. At some stage, he felt sure, he would be able to turn the knowledge against them.

Matt left Henfield fairly content with his day's work. True, he had only ridden twice, but he had won twice, which should have given the doubters something to chew over.

Although he would rather have been racing, one advantage of finishing early was that he arrived back at the cottage before it was completely dark, with the pleasant expectation of a long, lazy evening with Kendra, a log fire, and a bottle of wine. To this end, when he stopped for petrol, he equipped himself with a large bunch of mixed flowers, smiling inwardly as he pictured her delight.

The house was in darkness when he drove into the yard, except for a faint glow that suggested a light on in one of the back rooms upstairs. Surprised, and hoping Kendra hadn't made plans for another evening out, Matt turned his key in the front door, but it wouldn't open – apparently bolted on the inside. He rapped on it with the horseshoe-shaped knocker, which set the dogs barking furiously, but no one came to open the door.

Deeply puzzled, Matt went round the back of the cottage and let himself in, switching the light on and fending off the excited attentions of Sky and The Boys. Fitting bolts to the new back door was one of the next jobs on his never-ending list, but, thankfully, he hadn't got round to it as yet.

Kendra wasn't in the kitchen, and he laid the flowers on the table, feeling even more bewildered. Remembering the light he'd seen upstairs, Matt went up, wondering if perhaps she was unwell and had gone to lie down with Taffy for company.

'Kendra?'

He paused at the turn of the stairs to listen for an answer, but there was none, only a faint clicking of claws, which heralded Taffy's approach over the uncarpeted floor. As Matt reached the landing, the sheltie appeared in the doorway of the master bedroom, and, when she turned and went back, he was hot on her heels.

He stopped just over the threshold. The light was on, but Kendra wasn't there.

Taffy was now standing in front of the door to the en suite bathroom.

'Is she in there?' he asked the dog, who glanced back at Matt before returning her attention solemnly to the door, as if by sheer patience she would eventually be rewarded by its opening. She looked as though she was prepared to stand there all night.

Matt went across and knocked lightly on the stripped wooden panel. Painting was one of many jobs waiting to be done.

'Kendra? Are you in there?' He leaned close, but couldn't hear anything, and his heart began to thud with apprehension.

'Kendra! Are you all right?' Thanking providence that the lock had been removed for redecorating, Matt let himself in, following a close second to Taffy, who wasn't about to concede precedence to anyone.

At first it seemed as though the bathroom, too, was empty, but Taffy knew where she was going and, looking across, Matt could see a dark shadow, low down behind the semi-obscure door of the new shower cubicle.

'Kendra?'

Within moments, Matt had followed, sliding the door back, panic ballooning. And there, huddled – fully clothed – against the tiled back wall, was Kendra, her arms hugging her knees and her head bowed so that her face was hidden behind a curtain of blonde hair.

While Matt paused, his mind racing through the possible reasons for her hiding there, Taffy – ever practical – hopped over the lip of the shower basin and approached her mistress, pushing her nose under Kendra's arm to force her way into her embrace.

'Kendra – sweetheart, what's the matter? What's going on?' Matt's first thought was that something had happened to the baby.

At the sound of his voice, Kendra raised her head as if hearing it for the first time, and the expression on her face jolted him like a physical shock. Her eyes were huge, haunted, terrified, and she had clearly been crying.

'Oh my God, Kennie – what's wrong? What's happened?' He stepped into the cubicle, reached down to her, and drew her to her feet, where she stood, leaning weakly against him, clutching the sheltie under one arm. Matt could feel her trembling and his own heart thudding.

'Talk to me,' he urged gently. 'What's the matter?'

'He said he was coming to get me,' she sobbed into the fleece collar of his jacket. 'I've been so frightened.'

'Who did?'

'I don't know – a man, on the phone. He said he knew where I lived and he was coming to get me.'

Matt was horrified.

'When? When did this happen?'

'This afternoon, when I got back from helping Mum. I didn't know what to do . . .'

'Did you call the police?'

'Yes, of course! At least I tried to, but the phone was dead.' She looked up at Matt through tear-filled eyes. 'That's when I knew they must be close – if they'd cut the phone line – so I thought I'd try and get to Dad's, but . . .' Her voice caught and she stopped and sniffed. 'I grabbed Taffy and made a run for the car, but it wouldn't start. It was like a nightmare!'

Matt kissed her forehead.

'You poor love! It's all right – you're safe now.' He rubbed her back. 'So you came in and locked the doors?'

'I didn't know what else to do . . .'

'Why didn't you use your mobile?'

'I couldn't find it. I must have left it at Mum's. And I kept thinking, if only Jamie was still here. Why did it have to happen today, when he's just gone?' She paused. 'Oh God! You don't think they knew that? That they've been watching and waiting until I was alone?'

'I don't know,' Matt said. 'I shouldn't think so.' Although it was what he'd been thinking himself, he didn't think it would help to say so. 'Did this man say anything else? I mean, did he say why he was coming?'

Almost imperceptibly, he felt Kendra stiffen.

'Yes.' She pulled back slightly. 'He said because of you. He said you'd ignored the warning. He said he didn't want to hurt me, but you hadn't left him any choice.'

'Oh God, I'm sorry, love.' It seemed woefully inadequate, but he didn't know what else to say. His mind was racing. Had this been one of the men from Saturday night, then? From what they had said, those two had been hired muscle, so perhaps, instead, this had been the man who had done the hiring, shifting from physical intimidation to emotional?

'But you'll stop now, won't you? This thing with Jamie and Sophie – you'll leave it to the police. Won't you, Matt? Please?'

When he didn't immediately answer, she twisted her neck to look up at him.

'Matt? Please . . . ? I can't go through another day like today. It's gone way too far.'

'You're right. Come on, let's get you out of here. Let's go downstairs and I'll make you a cup of tea. You're safe now, anyway.'

Taffy had begun to wriggle, so Kendra lowered her to the floor, then, with Matt's arm round her shoulders, they went down, to be met at the bottom of the stairs by the other dogs, milling around with furiously wagging tails.

'Sky wouldn't have let anyone in, would you, lass?' Matt said, ruffling the German shepherd's thick fur.

Kendra sat at the table, clutching a handkerchief and still noticeably trembling, her face pale and tear-stained in the bright lights of the kitchen. 'I know she'd have barked, but I kept thinking, what if they had a knife? Or poison for the dogs? If they know all about us, they'd know about the dogs.'

Matt filled the kettle at the sink.

'To be honest, I don't suppose they ever intended coming in. I should think they just wanted to frighten you – to get at me.'

'Oh, so I'm overreacting, am I?' Kendra flared up. 'Making a fuss about nothing.'

'No – of course not! I didn't mean that, at all. I know how frightening it must have been. I was trying to comfort you.' Matt had a horrible feeling he was on a hiding to nothing.

'What, by making me feel like a pathetic female who's blown the whole thing out of proportion? Or was it to try and ease your conscience because you know bloody well it's all your fault in the first place? Because it is, you know. If you'd dropped this stupid private-eye thing when I asked you, none of this would have happened, and your career wouldn't be on the rocks. But – oh no! You had to play the hero! Well, I've had enough. I don't want to do this anymore.'

Matt left the kettle and went to crouch beside her, taking one of her hands in his.

'Of course I don't think you're pathetic. And I'm more sorry than I can say. If I'd had any idea it would come to this, I'd never have started it, I promise you.'

'So you'll give it up?'

'I would, but I'm not sure that'll help . . .'

'You would?' she repeated incredulously, snatching her hand away. 'You mean you're not going to? Even after what happened today?'

'Please Kennie, just listen. The thing is, I haven't really been doing anything anyway – not since that business on Saturday – but that hasn't made any difference, has it? They didn't wait to see if their warning had worked, so what's to say they'll stop now?' Done nothing, he thought guiltily, except speak to Bartholomew about Lord Kenning – but surely he wasn't behind this . . .

'You haven't done anything, maybe, but what about that Casey girl? They know she's helping you – what if she's been poking around?'

It was possible, Matt supposed, but she hadn't been in touch. He hoped she was all right. What if she was next in line for a dose of intimidation? What if she lived alone?

'Perhaps I'd better give her a ring,' he mused aloud. 'Check she's OK . . .'

'Oh, that'd be right!' Kendra jumped to her feet, upsetting the dogs, who all stood up with her in anticipation of an outing. 'Look after Casey, don't worry about your fiancée! Maybe Grace was right; she said it sounded like you were seeing a lot of her. Asked me if she was pretty.'

'Oh, for God's sake! You know your sister's got a vicious tongue! Since when did you take any notice of what she thinks?'

'So tell me why Casey's suddenly had a makeover – hair, clothes, the lot?' Kendra watched Matt's face for a long moment and then gave a short, bitter laugh. 'Oh my God! Are you going to try and tell me you hadn't noticed? Come on!'

Matt shook his head, vaguely remembering that something had struck him as different about the girl.

'I had other things on my mind on Saturday. Look, how did we get onto the subject of Casey, anyway?'

'You were going to ring her,' he was reminded tartly. 'Will that be before or after you drive me over to Dad's?'

'Tonight?' Matt queried.

'Yes tonight. Now,' she added, tears running freely once more. 'I love this house, but I don't want to be here alone anymore. I don't ever want to be that scared again.'

'And you won't be,' he stated. 'But stay here with me tonight and I'll take you first thing in the morning . . .'

She shook her head.

'Now. Please?'

'What about the police? We could use my mobile . . .'

'And spend all evening at the police station? No, thank you!'

'They might come here.'

'I just want to go home.'

The words cut deeply.

'I thought this was your home,' Matt said quietly.

'Home is somewhere you feel safe,' she retorted, her face pink.

With an effort, Matt checked his own instinctive response; nothing would be gained by a war of words. He sighed.

'All right. What about your tea?' He gestured at the waiting mugs and teabags. Anything to keep her there a little longer, to give her time to calm down, to maybe change her mind.

'No, leave it. I'll have some at Dad's,' she said, heading towards the stairs. 'I'll just grab some things.'

By the time Matt let himself back into the cottage later that evening, the pleasure he'd felt at the day's successes seemed a lifetime away. Even the dogs were subdued, looking past him into the darkness, as if waiting for Kendra and Taffy to appear.

They had spoken little on the journey to Birchwood Hall, Matt's efforts at conversation meeting with monosyllabic responses. They had never had such a serious row before and he was at a loss as to know how best to bring her round.

Using Matt's mobile to phone ahead, Kendra was met on the doorstep by her mother, who took the overnight bag from Matt with a commiserating half-smile and gathered her tearful daughter in, rather like a hen taking a chick under its wing. Taffy trotted in at their heels without a backward glance.

Left staring at the half-open front door, Matt kicked his heels for a minute or so and then pulled the door shut and turned away. Kendra's last words had been to suggest that he'd want to get back to feed the dogs. The implication was clear – for now, at least, he wasn't wanted.

At Spinney Cottage he shut the front door against a chilly wind and wandered into the kitchen, dropping his keys on the work surface and flicking the switch on the kettle. The two waiting mugs seemed to mock him and he put one away. On the wall, a pulsing red light on the telephone answering machine indicated messages left, and, while he waited for the water to boil, he listened to them.

There were four: the first from Josh Harper, who said he'd catch Matt later. One, incredibly, was from the telephone company – who he'd called before setting out. Then, they had told him that an engineer would call within the next two days, but their message said that the connection had been restored and they were testing the line. Next, Casey's Irish accent announced that she'd found out that the white van was owned by one Steve Bryan, who lived in Yeovil, but the usefulness of this information was limited by the fact that it had been reported stolen the evening Matt was attacked. The last message, left only ten minutes before Matt had got in, was from John Leonard and, instantly, something in his voice made Matt pause, teaspoon in hand, and look at the phone.

'Matt . . . er, well done today. Look, I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but the Guv'nor wants Ray on his first string for the rest of the week. There's Mr Monkey for you tomorrow, and those two novices of Emmett's on Saturday, but not a lot else, I'm afraid. I tried to reason with him, but . . . Well, you know what he's like . . . Sorry, Matt.' There was a short silence, where a sound like the rustling of papers could be heard, and then the click of the receiver being replaced. The machine told him that he'd reached the end of his messages, and invited him to listen to them again, but he reached out a hand to switch it off.

How the hell could Brewer justify jocking him off on the grounds of poor performance, just a few hours after he'd won two decent races? Matt picked up the handset, intending to ring Kendra's father, but stopped the call before it was answered. Even in his bitterly angry state, he recognised that now was probably not a propitious time to have what would almost certainly develop into a flaming row with the man. The thought of ringing Leonard was dismissed almost as quickly. He really couldn't blame the trainer for knuckling under to Brewer, who was, to all intents and purposes, his boss. Ruining his own working relations wouldn't do anything to help Matt. Seething, Matt hooked the phone back in its cradle and slammed the heel of his palm into the wall beside it.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he considered his next move. Kendra had said the man had phoned to threaten her, so the first thing to do was check caller display, just in case he'd slipped up and not withheld his number.

It was a slim chance and Matt wasn't surprised to find, among the numbers he recognised, one instance of a number not being left.

Scooping the teabag out of his mug, he stirred in milk and sat at the table, reluctantly coming to the decision that, whether Kendra liked it or not, Bartholomew must be called. He recognised, too, that, in doing so, the details of his own recent attack would inevitably be dragged out into the open and his knuckles be severely rapped for not reporting it at the time.

Hoping that Bartholomew would be off duty, Matt reached for the phone.