13

'Matt . . . hi.'

Harry seemed at a loss. He turned sideways and sat rather heavily on the arm of the wing chair, replacing the cushion where it belonged.

'Hi. I was, er . . . looking for Joy.' For some reason he wasn't sure he understood himself, Matt held back from commenting on the scene he had inadvertently walked in on. The atmosphere fairly crackled with unspoken thoughts.

Finally, Frances said brightly, 'I think she's in the dining room.'

She got up from her position on the sofa and advanced on Harry.

'Now, are you going to say a pretty please?' she enquired, then looked past him to Matt. 'He was being cheeky, so I removed his chair. But I suppose I'd better take pity on him . . .'

Matt smiled.

'Oh, I don't know. I should make him suffer a bit longer, if I were you,' he said. 'Do him good. Anyway, I'm heading home, so I'll leave you to it. Goodnight.'

''Night, Matt,' Harry responded, and Frances waved a cheery hand.

Closing the door on them, Matt frowned. The explanation was plausible enough and he'd been careful to show no scepticism, but the truth was that he didn't believe a word of it. Although Harry had long been able to stand for a sufficient length of time to move himself in and out of his wheelchair, the manoeuvre had always caused him white-faced discomfort. The man who had turned to face Matt a moment ago had been smiling and relaxed.

Matt's pleasure at seeing Harry on his feet was mixed with confusion. It was clear that movement was no longer the agonising ordeal it had been since the accident that had ended his career, but for how long had he been improving, and why hadn't he shared the joy of his progress – even with his parents? Frances's pretence indicated that, whatever the reason, Harry wanted no one to know, and Matt felt a little hurt that he hadn't been considered friend enough to be taken into his confidence.

Shrugging the mood away, he made his way to the dining room, where he did find Joy, as Frances had suggested. She was standing by one of the long windows, looking out, and he had to say her name twice before she heard him.

'Oh, hello Matt. Are you off?'

'Yes. The dogs will be waiting to go out. Is everything OK?' He thought she looked a little distracted.

'Well, I'm not sure,' she said, pulling the curtain aside once more and peering into the darkness. 'I can just see the yard from here and it looks as though there's a light on. I was trying to decide if it was the Hattery. I could have sworn I'd turned it off when I finished this afternoon, but it's just possible that I forgot.'

'Do you want me to check?'

'Oh, would you? You are an angel. I can't get Niall on his mobile and I was just thinking I'd better go myself, but it's raining.'

'No problem. If it is unlocked, I'll pop the key on the hall table before I go.'

'Brilliant – thank you.'

With an eye to the rain, Matt went out through the kitchen and utility room, which was a lot closer to the old stableyard than the front door. Turning up the collar of his jacket, he ducked his head and ran along the stone path towards the converted coach house which was the Hattery, but, as he drew closer, he could see that the light Joy had seen wasn't actually coming from the showroom or workshop, but further on. Matt wasn't sure what the next building was used for, but, having come that far, he supposed he might as well investigate.

An ill-fitting blind hung in the lighted window and, pausing as he came level, Matt was able to see round the edge of it. The room beyond appeared to be some sort of office, and was indeed occupied. Standing by the filing cabinet was a slim twenty-something man whom Matt had never seen before, and who was clearly deep in an impassioned conversation with someone out of Matt's line of sight.

At this point, with the rain circumventing his jacket's wholly inadequate defences, Matt's intention was to turn and make good speed in the direction of his car, but two things kept him by the window. One was the striking appearance of the man, who had alabaster skin, large, dark-lashed brown eyes, and long dark hair tied at the nape of his neck with what looked like a length of black velvet ribbon. He wore a three-quarter-length jacket of a silvery-grey material over a black shirt and slim-legged jeans, and the whole effect was more than a little effeminate. The other thing that kept Matt watching was curiosity about the identity of the person this vision was talking to.

Fortunately, he didn't have too long to wait. After gesticulating with all the drama of a silent movie star, the ponytailed one turned and moved towards the door, but, before he could reach it, another figure came into view, vaulting the desk, catching the young man by the shoulders, and turning him round.

Matt instinctively shrank back a little, but continued to gaze intently at the lighted cameo being played out before him, the rain forgotten. The second man seemed also to be gripped by a strong emotion and though, at first, Matt wasn't sure whether his intentions were violent, it soon became clear that nothing could be further from the truth. After addressing a number of rapid, fervent phrases to the man in the silvery jacket, he placed a finger under his chin, tilted his head up until the dark-lashed eyes looked back at him, and then kissed him full on the lips.

Matt felt a frisson of shock; not so much at the homosexual act as at the instigator of it, for it was none other than Charlie Brewer's security man, Deacon's bodyguard – Niall Delafield.

The kiss was unmistakably passionate, the young man slipping his arms around Delafield's neck to pull him closer, but, in the end, it was Delafield who broke the union, pulling away from the man and shaking his head.

This apparently incensed his lover. With brows drawn down and dark eyes flashing dangerously, he rattled off a furious tirade, punctuated by a number of ineffectual thumps on Delafield's arms and chest with his clenched fists. They were the hands of an artist or musician, not of a fighter, and the blows obviously didn't trouble Delafield at all. Half laughing, he caught the slim fists and held them still, which made the young man even angrier. When the diatribe came to an end, Delafield shrugged, shook his head, and lightly kissed him again before releasing him.

This time his reward was a stinging slap across the face, hard enough to make him take an involuntary step back, and the man in the silver jacket turned without another word and stalked across to the door.

Suddenly Matt realised the assignation was coming to an end and that, if he stayed where he was, he was in imminent danger of discovery. Although his encounters with the man had been few, he needed no one to tell him that being caught spying on Delafield in such a situation was probably not a good idea. Backing away from the window, he glanced hurriedly around and then slipped into the shadowed doorway of Joy's showroom.

He was only just in time.

The storeroom door was thrown open with such force that it hit the brick wall beside it and rebounded, almost hitting the slim figure that erupted from the doorway.

At this point, Matt deemed it prudent to turn his head to the Hattery door, aware that the pale skin of his face would very likely give him away.

'Joe – for God's sake, calm down! It's not going to be for ever, I promise.' That was Delafield.

'That's what you say – but you won't say how long.' The Scouse accent contrasted oddly with its owner's exotic appearance. 'So what am I supposed to do? Sit around waiting for you to call? You owe me more than that.'

'I know, and I'm sorry. But this isn't my fault, you know that.'

'Do I? I only know what you're telling me, but what if there's more to it? Is this really about you and me?'

'You know it's not. I just can't get away at the moment – I told you why.'

'Can't – or don't want to?' Joe demanded hotly. 'Perhaps you prefer to be with your precious Deacon.'

'Sshh! Keep your voice down!'

'Why? Brewer's not going to hear me in bloody Reading!'

'He's not the only one that lives here.'

'But who's going to be out here, in this? Besides, why should I care who hears us? If you're dumping me – what does it matter?' the younger man declared dramatically.

'Please don't start that again – I'm not dumping you. Things are a bit difficult at the moment, that's all. Look, I'll call you tomorrow, OK?'

'I might be in, I might not,' came the pettish reply.

'For God's sake, Joe – don't be childish!'

'Anyway – what if I tell him about that night?'

'You don't know anything . . .' There was a note of uncertainty in the response.

'Oh, I think I do. I'm not stupid, you know. I was with you when he phoned, don't forget. It wasn't really your night off, was it?'

There was a pause, when all Matt could hear was the rain hissing on the stone paving. He imagined the silver jacket darkening in the downpour.

'You wouldn't do that,' Delafield said, quite softly.

'Why not? I'd have you to myself then.'

'You mustn't do it. Believe me – you have no idea . . .'

'Call me, then. Come and see me.' The young man sounded at breaking point.

'I will, I said I would,' Delafield soothed.

'Call me.' The voice came from further away; there came the sound of running footsteps and then just the rain.

Heart thumping, Matt stayed where he was, hardly daring to breathe, and presently heard Delafield utter an emphatic, 'Shit!'

The door shut, a key turned, and then the security man headed back to the house, passing within a few feet of where Matt strove to meld his body into the doorpost.

When he was sure the coast was clear, Matt came cautiously out of hiding, glanced right and left, and then turned and hurried through the rain to his car, keeping in the shadow of the buildings until he had rounded the corner of the house.

Once in the MR2, he stripped off his wet jacket, pulled on a spare fleece that he kept behind his seat, and sat staring sightlessly in the rear-view mirror as the courtesy light faded and went out, his mind busy with the implications of what he'd just witnessed.

Exactly what was it that Joe was threatening to tell? It was certainly enough to seriously rattle Delafield. Who had phoned him? When? And what had been said?

Did Brewer know that the man he relied on to keep an eye on his son was gay? It was hard to believe he did, for Kendra's father was one of the most homophobic people Matt had ever met, but, from what had been said, it sounded as though he'd found out, somehow.

Matt's mind went back to the evening when he'd overheard a heated confrontation between the two men in Brewer's office. The words, which had meant nothing at the time, took on some significance in the light of the night's events. What was it Brewer had said? Something about having a right to be politically incorrect in his own home, wasn't it? And he'd told Delafield to get rid of someone – the exquisite Joe, perhaps? – or risk losing his job.

But Matt also remembered that Delafield had been confident that the businessman wouldn't fire him . . . Why? he wondered. What leverage did the security man have on Kendra's father that could possibly force him to overcome such a deep-seated aversion?

Whatever it was, it seemed that the two had reached an uneasy truce and Matt certainly wasn't about to ask Delafield about it. Maybe the security man had kept his job on the understanding that his lover stayed well away from Birchwood Hall?

It was the only explanation that made any sense at all, but it still didn't quite add up. For one thing, the word compromise was not one that Matt would usually use in the same sentence with Brewer. It was way out of character.

Shaking his head, Matt started the car and set off for home. All in all, it had been quite an evening.

The weather at Wincanton the next afternoon was blustery and cold, but the going was good to soft, a fact to which Matt could testify, as he trudged back down the home straight after falling at the last. The first of Roy Emmett's two promising novices had met the fence completely wrong, suffering a crisis of confidence and putting down for an extra stride when he should have been taking off. But the news wasn't all bad – the fall had been easy, the ground relatively soft, and both horse and jockey had come to their feet unharmed. Just another day at the office. All the same, Matt felt as though he'd had more than his fair share of falls lately.

With several runners from Rockfield, both Harry and John Leonard were at the Somerset course but, although Matt found it impossible to look at him without recalling the scene in the library, Harry seemed untroubled by any awkwardness, greeting him in his usual friendly fashion.

In the paddock for the next race, Matt scanned the field of six runners and was interested to see an old friend among them. It was Maple Tree, the horse of the missing breast-girth incident, although this time Matt noted that he was wearing a full complement of tack. He looked round for Mick Westerby and saw him talking to a tall, middle-aged man in a grey woollen overcoat. Mikey Copperfield stood alongside, characteristically reserved.

'Who's the man with Westerby?' Matt asked Doogie, who, after a lifetime in National Hunt racing, was a font of knowledge when it came to owners, trainers, and horses.

'I'm not sure, but it isn't the horse's owner, I can tell you that much, because Glenda Naismith died last week. Shame – she was a nice old girl, ninety if she was a day and tough as boot leather. Maybe it's her son? I can find out for you. Is it important?'

'It might be,' Matt said. 'I could ask Mikey, but he tends to focus on the horses and everything else washes over the top.'

'He's a rare talent, though,' Doogie stated. 'I'd give him a job any day. OK, I'll see what I can do. Nice horse that grey. Shame Westerby's got it, I wouldn't mind training it myself. It'll be the one to beat in this race, I think.'

Doogie was right. Maple Tree was the one to beat, and, on this occasion, Matt's horse wasn't up to the task. They came a close second, though, passing the post less than a length behind the grey, and Matt slapped the younger jockey on the back as they slowed up.

'Nice work, Mikey! Hey, who's the guy in the long coat who was talking to Mick?'

Mikey shrugged.

'Not sure. The owner, I think. Somebody Naismith. Why?'

'Just wondered,' Matt said, hoping Doogie could find out more. He wouldn't mind a little chat with Somebody Naismith, if he got the chance. He had an idea he might be interested to hear the sad tale of Maple Tree's last run.

When Matt joined Doogie in the paddock for the second of his two runners, the elderly trainer had a twinkle in his eye.

'Got the information you were after,' he announced. 'The chap with Westerby was Glenda's son. His name's Stephen Naismith and he's a lawyer. As the only child, he's expected to inherit his mother's horses, but it's not known whether he intends to keep them on. That's all anyone seems to know, at the moment. Oh, and he's currently entertaining our friend Mick in the bar upstairs.'

'Brilliant. Thank you.'

It was good news that Naismith had not, as yet, left the course, but slightly less promising, for Matt's purposes, that he seemed to be on such friendly terms with his late mother's unscrupulous trainer.

'Got some more news for you, too. Chris Fairbrother's retiring.' His bright blue eyes watched Matt closely. 'Thought you might like to know, considering he's given you a bit of a hard time of it lately.'

'But he's only young.'

'Well, it might just be temporary. His little girl is sick and he's taking her abroad for treatment. America, I think.'

'Poor bloke,' Matt said, genuinely sorry. Maybe that explained the steward's odd judgements of late. 'Christ, that'll cost him a pretty penny . . .'

'Ah, that's what I thought,' Doogie said. 'But it seems your good friend Lord Kenning is helping out. What do you think of that?'

What indeed? Remembering Fairbrother's strange behaviour the last time they had met, certain things began to slot into place.

'Well, well,' Matt said, thoughtfully.

Having partnered Doogie's second horse to a respectable third place, and with no rides in the next two races, Matt pulled his Q&S jacket on over his silks and went in search of Maple Tree's new owner.

Although Matt had no ride in the next race, he knew Westerby had a runner, and so could be fairly certain that the trainer would be in the paddock and not still in the bar with Stephen Naismith.

So it proved.

It appeared that Naismith had come to Wincanton on his own, and when Matt paused in the doorway of the bar, scanning the room, he saw him sitting at a table by the window, his grey overcoat thrown over the back of the seat beside him. Naismith was deep in contemplation of his racecard when Matt approached, and didn't look up when he stopped beside the table.

'Mr Naismith?'

'Yes?' Naismith glanced up blankly. He clearly didn't recognise Matt, even with the giveaway breeches and boots.

'Hi. My name's Matt Shepherd. I ride for Mick Westerby sometimes . . .' Not anymore, he didn't. 'Could I have a word?'

'Er . . . Yes – sure. Have a seat.' His voice was educated, pleasant, unaccented.

'I don't know whether you're aware, but I rode Maple Tree for your mother, when he last ran.'

'I'm afraid my mother's passed away.'

'Yes, I heard. I'm sorry. I never met her, but Doogie McKenzie told me she was quite a character.'

'She was,' Naismith agreed. 'So what can I do for you, Mr Shepherd?'

'Well, Maple Tree is – as you saw today – a very good horse,' Matt told him. 'But when I rode him, he wasn't allowed to run on merit; in fact, I believe he was sabotaged in an attempt to get at me . . .'

Quite suddenly Naismith's easy attitude was replaced by the needle-sharp gaze of a man for whom conflict and dissent were a part of everyday life.

'Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning,' he suggested. 'Would you like a coffee?'

Naismith listened with apparent interest to what Matt had to say, and ended by thanking Matt for telling him, without giving any intimation of what he intended doing about it – if anything. From his reaction to the story, Matt was led to suspect that the lawyer hadn't been wholly won over by Westerby himself, and he exhibited no sign of disbelief, even when Lord Kenning's name was introduced into the tale. He wanted to know where he could find Rick Smith and, reluctantly, Matt told him, whilst warning him that Westerby's ex-head lad might well refuse to see him. The encounter took far longer than Matt had envisaged, and, after answering a few very pertinent questions, he had to hurry back to weigh out for his next race, leaving Maple Tree's owner to digest what he had heard.

Kenning was at Wincanton, but kept his distance, and when, at the end of the day, Roy Emmett's second runner further redeemed Matt's fortunes by winning a novice chase in fine style, he made his way home feeling that, on balance, things were looking up.

Returning to Spinney Cottage after a satisfying schooling session at Doogie's yard the following morning, Matt collected the local paper from his letterbox, weathered a mobbing by his three exuberant dogs, switched the kettle on, and went upstairs for a shower. It was the old Sunday morning routine that he had followed quite happily until Kendra had moved in, but now it felt flat and dull. He really hadn't appreciated how much colour she had brought to his existence, until she had taken it away again. He missed her welcoming kiss; missed being able to discuss how the horses had worked – what Leonard had said; he even missed Taffy. Without him noticing, the streetwise little sheltie had become an integral part of his life, too.

Washed, changed, and the dogs fed, Matt settled down to drink a cup of coffee and read the papers, before going out to see to the horses. The dogs knew the schedule and sat, quietly watchful, on their beds, waiting for a sign that their master was on the move.

The Daily Standard's racing pages had, among others, a picture of Mikey winning on Maple Tree the day before, and couldn't resist pointing out that, in doing so, the teenager had beaten Matt Shepherd, who had had a very different result when he had last ridden the horse.

'Yeah, yeah,' Matt muttered, causing the dogs to prick up their ears hopefully. He took the jibe with resignation. It was the kind of observation that newspapers love to make, and he certainly didn't begrudge the young jockey his praise. Nobody could deny that Mikey had ridden the horse beautifully.

Moving on, in due course, to the local paper, Matt leafed through the pages, skimming over reports of land disputes, petty crime, and adverts for jumble sales and bingo in various village halls. There was little to catch his interest at first sight, but he would look through it again, if he had time, before it was used to light the wood-burning stove.

He had finished his coffee and was about to put the paper aside when his attention was caught by one of the photos. Frowning slightly, he turned back to look again.

The photo was of a willowy, pouting woman in a skintight skirt and a strapless top that appeared to be composed of a huge bow and not much else. Beside her was an equally slender young man in a three-quarter-length fitted jacket, with a large jewelled buckle on his jeans and tied-back dark hair. The striking, fine-boned face was, without a doubt, the one Matt had seen through the window of the storeroom at Birchwood Hall – the face he'd seen Niall Delafield take in his hands and kiss so ardently.

Swiftly, Matt scanned the text beneath the picture. Joseph Wintermann, the newest sensation in haute couture, was to show off his new season's designs in a charity fashion show that was to take place in a marquee in the grounds of Kelsey Grange on Monday evening. Wintermann was becoming known, the article continued, for his imaginative and daring mixes of velvet, silks, and metallic fabrics. The rights to reproduce Wintermann designs for the general market were being fought over by several of the big names on the high street, he read, and Joseph, an enigmatic young man with dark, romantic looks, was certain to win numerous fans with his winter collection.

Matt was halfway through reading the piece a second time, when his mobile trilled. The display was showing Casey's name. He picked it up.

'Hi. I was going to ring you later.'

'How nice,' she said blithely.

'So what's new?'

'Well, not a lot, actually. Apart from the stuff I told you the other day, there's not much to find about your man Delafield. He seems to have gone off the radar a few years ago, then he turns up abroad, where Brewer found him. But I couldn't find anything at all to link him to Steve Bryan, the van man. They weren't in the same regiment, but I suppose – if you say Delafield was SAS – they might have run into each other there. I should imagine it'd be almost impossible to find out.'

'Yeah, I guess so.' With the shock of last night's discovery, the somewhat loosely linked chain of thought that had led to him asking for the information had completely fallen apart. He searched his memory. 'What about Kenning? Any link there?'

'Sorry. None I could find.'

'Oh well, it was worth a try. So, how did the date with Jamie go?'

'Which one?' she asked coyly.

'Ah! Say no more.'

When Casey rang off, Matt returned to the paper and stared long and hard at the photograph. In spite of the lack of any detectable link between the owner of the white van and Niall Delafield, it was obvious, from what Matt had overheard, that – quite apart from the matter of his sexuality – there was something very irregular about Charlie Brewer's security man.

Matt read the article again.

Kelsey Grange, if he remembered correctly, was a stately home somewhere between Bath and Yeovil. No doubt there would be a good deal of coming and going in the run-up to the fashion show; it was just possible, in the confusion, that there might be a chance to get close enough to have a word with the beautiful and talented Mr Wintermann. Quite what he was going to say, if he did manage such an interview, he wasn't entirely sure, but he felt he should at least make the attempt, if only to assure himself that the argument between Joe Wintermann and Delafield was a private affair and concerned nothing of significance to him.

If the young man was still in emotional turmoil, he might be ripe for pouring his troubles into a sympathetic ear. Matt had to repress a shudder at the thought. This was one task he would gladly have passed over to Bartholomew, but what reason could he give? Being homosexual wasn't a crime, whatever any individual might think about it. He knew nothing about Delafield that would remotely interest Bartholomew, all he had was a collection of disjointed facts and half-heard comments, and a hunch that they might possibly add up to an important whole.

After seeing to the animals, Matt once again spent the remainder of the daylight hours working in the new kitchen, leaving himself just enough time to take the dogs for a decent walk before the darkness closed in.

His evening meal was a reheated tagliatelli, which he ate in the sitting room with the TV on. The three dogs followed him in, flopping down at his feet and keeping an eye on his plate with varying degrees of subtlety. Without Kendra there to frown him down, Matt dropped the last three chunks of ham into their willing mouths and pushed the bowl to one side. It was a long time since he'd spent a Sunday evening at the cottage, and although the custom of going to Birchwood Hall every week had been irksome at times, it seemed infinitely preferable to eating yesterday's leftovers with only the dogs for company, much as he loved them. He'd rung Kendra when he'd finished work but, although she was plainly very happy to hear from him, she reported that her father's mood left a lot to be desired and discouraged Matt's intention to brave it and attend the family meal.

Even though he'd had plenty to occupy his thoughts that day, the conundrum that was Harry Leonard had kept creeping in. Matt found himself replaying the scene over and over in his mind. Was it possible that he'd been mistaken? However he looked at it, the answer was no. Harry had been standing up, one hand on the back of the chair, weight on both feet, and sharing a joke with Kendra's sister. Matt was as sure as he could be that he'd had no further operations so, somehow, Harry had found some way to unlock the pain which had kept him confined to a wheelchair for the last eighteen months. But when had it happened, and how?

Frances would know, and he'd been sorely tempted to ring her, but, having covered for Harry on Friday, it seemed unlikely that she would give up his secret now.

The thought that his friend was on the road to recovery was wonderful, but a niggling worm of unease twisted through that pleasure – how long had he been mobile? Had he, in fact, lied to the police on the night of the party, when they had asked him about the wheelchair, and, if so, why? Wanting to keep his recovery a secret to surprise his friends and family was understandable, but not reason enough to mislead those engaged in conducting a murder enquiry. Matt knew that, secret or not, he was going to have to talk to Harry about it.

Realising that he had absolutely no idea why the woman on the television had just stormed out on her family and slammed the door, or even who she was, Matt switched it off and decided to have an early night.

With no racing the following day, there was nothing to prevent Matt taking a trip out to Kelsey Grange to try and track down Delafield's boyfriend. It was not a thought he relished, not least because, if Delafield ever got wind of it, Matt had an idea he might turn rather nasty, and, long before he arrived at his destination, he had decided that an alias might be a sensible precaution.

Kelsey Grange was a grand but not particularly beautiful Bath stone building in the Adam style, and home to – according to the guidebooks – a quantity of mosaic flooring of international importance.

As Matt drove up, he found the house partly obscured by a large white marquee and the numerous vehicles standing on the parkland immediately in front of it. The marquee was billowing in the brisk breeze and the scene was one of frenetic activity with people scurrying in all directions: some in overalls, some in casual workaday clothing, and one or two looking as though they had stepped out of the fashion pages of a cutting-edge magazine.

No one took any notice of him as he parked the car, slotting it carefully out of sight between a huge, spotless 4x4 and a pink van that bore the legend 'Marcell's Event Catering' and promised – rather ambiguously, he thought – 'Party food you'll remember!'

Trying to look as though he had every reason to be there, Matt locked the car and made his way towards the marquee, where he encountered the first sign of security in the form of a beefy-looking individual in worn jeans and a black tee shirt, the short sleeves of which strained round a pair of powerful, tattooed biceps. He had frizzy gingerish hair dragged back into a ponytail and small, steely-grey eyes that Matt felt uncomfortably sure had singled him out as an impostor the moment they had spotted him.

He sauntered up, producing what he hoped was a relaxed smile, but was met with no answering gleam. Although the gingery one wasn't actually physically blocking the tent opening, he was standing close enough to leave would-be unauthorised entrants in no doubt that they would be repelled.

Matt rethought his initial plan of keeping his head down and following someone else through and walked straight up to the big man.

'Is Joe inside?'

Ginger looked him up and down from his extra six inches or so.

'Who wants to know?'

'Friend of a friend,' Matt said mendaciously.

The piggy eyes narrowed still further.

'Mr Wintermann don't want to see no journalists till later. Come back at six o'clock.'

'I'm not a journalist,' Matt began, but, before he could say anything more, a new player erupted upon the scene in the person of a middle-aged man in skintight leather trousers and a white polo-neck jumper. He appeared in the marquee entrance wearing shades – even though the day wasn't bright – and with his unconvincingly black curls partially hidden under a red baseball cap.

'At last!' he cried, beckoning to Matt with a clipboard. 'You certainly took your time. I was just going to ring the agency again. Come along in.'

Unwilling to pass up this fortuitous chance, Matt smiled again at Ginger and followed the clipboard man into the subdued light of the tent.

Walking slightly sideways, the man looked back at Matt and kept up a continuous chatter as he led the way towards the catwalk, which was laid out in an elongated T shape from a stage at one end of the tent.

'Shouldn't you be taller? I specifically asked for over six foot. Joseph's designs cry out for height. Honestly, these people are imbeciles! It's hardly rocket science, is it? Six foot or over, I said, and they send me – what are you? Five nine, five ten?'

Matt nodded, a little bemused. 'Five nine,' he confirmed.

The man stopped in his tracks and, close up, Matt could see that, despite the youthful style of dressing, he was well into his fifties if he was a day.

'There, what did I say? Why don't they just say if they can't fulfil the fucking brief? What are we supposed to do? Take all the clothes up? I mean, it would spoil the lines completely – even if we had time, which we don't. Not that you haven't got the look . . .' He put out a hand and caught Matt's chin, turning his face to profile. 'Mm. You might do for our summer range, I suppose. Shame you didn't grow a bit more,' he said, his tone leaving Matt in no doubt that his lack of inches was entirely his own fault.

The man shook his head, tutted, and led the way forward again.

'It's no good. I shall have to get onto the agency again. You'll stick out like a sore thumb. Fucking hell! If it wasn't enough having Joseph in floods of tears every five minutes . . . He's had a row with his boyfriend, you see,' he confided, over his shoulder. 'I expect it'll all come out all right in the end, but it's lousy timing.'

In the corner they were approaching, a table and chairs were set up out of the way of the bustling crew. On the table were a laptop computer, several more clipboards, and a couple of mugs half full of tea or coffee with skin forming on the top.

A young man sat on one of the chairs, but, to Matt's disappointment, it wasn't Wintermann. This man had chin-length platinum blond hair, angular features, a pencil-slim body, and a sulky whatever expression that made it a fair guess that he was a model.

'This is Juno,' Matt's companion said, waving a hand. 'And you are – what did you say your name was?'

'Er – Luke,' he said, giving his brother's name.

'Luke . . . ?' The clipboard man waited, expectantly.

'Yes, that's right,' Matt said unhelpfully. 'Actually, I'm not from the agency, I was looking for Joe.'

'Not a model?'

Matt shook his head.

'You're not a journalist?' he said, lowering his voice suspiciously.

'No, I'm a friend of Niall's.'

'But Joseph's not here. I thought he was meeting Niall – he said he was.'

'Oh, damn. I must have just missed him then,' Matt said. 'Look, if I give you my number, could you get him to ring me? It's rather important. But tell him it would be better if he didn't mention me to Niall. I don't want to cause any more problems – especially with all this going on. Er . . . have you got a piece of paper . . . ?'

The clipboard man favoured him with a narrow-eyed look and then gestured to an A4 pad on the table.

'You can write it down there. They're all things he's got to sort out when he gets here – if he's got time, that is. I can't believe he's not here now, after all the work we've put in to get this thing up and running. Here, use my pen,' he added, passing Matt a cheap blue biro which bore signs of having been extensively chewed.

Drawing a line under the previous memo, Matt wrote down his alias followed by his mobile number, and then, in brackets, 'Niall's friend'. Whether the gamble would pay off, he wasn't sure, but, hopefully, the idea that the mysterious Luke had links with Joe's lover would be tantalising enough to do the trick.

His failure to speak to Delafield's boyfriend left Matt feeling some disappointment, but a far larger measure of relief. His plan, such as it was, had been to bluff Wintermann that he knew more than he did, hoping to frighten the highly strung designer into betraying something. With that opportunity taken away from him, he didn't really know which way to turn, and he doubted that Wintermann would phone him, even if the message didn't get lost in the flurry of preparations for the show.

By the time he'd reached home, Matt had decided that, if he didn't hear anything by the following day, he would contact Bartholomew, lay before him all the facts he had gathered, and wash his hands of the whole business, trusting that, in the end, justice would be done. Whether it would prove to be in time to save his relationship or his job at Rockfield, only time would tell.

He wandered into the new kitchen and stood looking unexcitedly at the paint pots and piles of sandpaper for several minutes, before turning his back on it all and shutting the door. Plugging in his laptop for the first time in days, he logged on to check his e-mail and found, to his surprise, one from Sophie's flatmate, Tara Goodwin. He vaguely remembered having given her his address, in case she thought of anything new, but he hadn't really expected her to make use of it.

The text read simply: Some photos arrived for Sophie today. She must have taken them on holiday with one of those throwaway cameras. I've passed them on to the police, but I've scanned a couple I thought you might want to see. Don't know if this is Mosie . . . Love to Kendra. X

Matt scrolled down to find three very amateurish photographs, two shot at the pool-side of a towering white hotel that could have been located in one of several hundred resorts, and one in a hotel room. The two outside ones featured Sophie herself, wearing a barely-there bikini and lounging on a sunbed next to an older man. The inside one was blurred, as if the camera hadn't been held steady, but showed the same man decked out in a woman's black and red negligee set, complete with suspenders and love hearts on the knickers and bra. He had put his hand forward in an attempt to block the lens, but, even so, there was no mistaking the lean features of Matt's nemesis, Lord Kenning.