Ben looked down again at the table in front of him. Jolyon Roberts had died only four days previously. It was still very recent—very raw.

“Did you know he was drunk when he drowned?” I asked.

“He couldn’t have been,” Ben said, looking up at me.

“The autopsy showed he was,” I said.

“But that’s impossible.”

“Because he didn’t drink?”

“Never,” he said. “He might have a tiny sip of champagne occasionally, you know, at a wedding for a toast, that sort of thing, but otherwise he never touched alcohol.”

“Did he ever drink whisky?” I asked. “Late at night maybe?”

“Not that I was aware of,” Ben said. “And I very much doubt it. I tried to get him to have a beer at my twenty-first birthday party, but I had no chance. He said that he didn’t like booze so it was no hardship not to have it.”

“Was he teetotal because of his heart condition?” I asked.

“Heart condition?” Ben said. “Whatever gave you the impression Uncle J had a heart condition? His heart was as strong as an ox. Or at least we all thought it was until last Monday.”

Perhaps Ben hadn’t known about his uncle’s heart condition, I thought. After all, it’s not the sort of thing people usually advertise about themselves.

“Tell me about your trip to Bulgaria,” I said. “When you went to see the factory.”

“There’s absolutely nothing there,” he said. “Nothing at all. And the locals know nothing about it. They’ve never even heard of any plans to build a factory, let alone the houses.”

“Are you sure you were in the right place?” I asked.

He glanced at me with a look that could only be described as one of contempt.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said. “I took all the details with me so that I would be able find it. My family are so proud of what the Trust does to help those less fortunate than ourselves. That’s why I was so keen for the skiing club to go to Bulgaria in the first place, and especially to Borovets. It was close enough so I could spend a day going to see the factory if I wanted.”

“Did anyone know you were going to the factory?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I wasn’t absolutely sure that I would. It depended on the snow and the weather. To be honest, I’d much rather ski than visit factories, but on one day the cloud was right down on the slopes so I went, but the factory wasn’t there.”

“Where was it meant to be?” I asked.

“Close to a village called Gorni, south of Sofia. But when I saw the site, it was nothing more than a toxic waste dump left over from the mass industrialization of the country during the Soviet era.”

“So what have you done about it?” I asked. “Your family has invested a lot of money in the project.”

“Yeah, and lost it all too.” He sounded resigned to the loss.

“Aren’t you even going to try to get it back?”

“I don’t expect so,” Ben said. “My father is worried that the family name will be discredited. What he means is that we will be shown up to have been bloody fools—and fools that were easily separated from their money. He is furious about it, but mostly because he was talked into it by Uncle Jolyon and some financial adviser chap.”

“Gregory Black?” I asked.

“He’s the one,” he said.

“So your father says to forget it? Forget five million pounds just like that?”

“It’s only money,” he said almost flippantly. “And money is fairly easy to replace. It’s not like one’s family reputation. It can take many generations to repair damage to one’s family’s standing, and sometimes it can never be restored.”

It sounded to me that he was quoting his father.

“But it’s not possible to replace your uncle Jolyon,” I said.

“That’s surely all the more reason to forget about the whole thing. If the stress of this factory business gave Uncle J his heart attack, then we should unquestionably let sleeping dogs lie. Otherwise, our foolishness will be shown to have cost the family far more than mere money.”

“But I believe your uncle was murdered,” I said. “Don’t you want justice?”

“Would that bring him back?” he said angrily. “No, of course it wouldn’t. And, anyway, I believe that you are wrong. In fact, I believe you are just here to cause my family trouble.” He stood up quickly, bunching his fists. “What is it you’re really after? Do you want money? Is that it? Money or you’ll go to the papers?”

This could get very nasty, and very quickly, I thought.

I didn’t move but just sat still on the bench, not even looking up at him.

“I don’t want your money,” I said calmly.

But what did I want?

Did I really care if some clever eurocrat in Brussels and a Bulgarian property entrepreneur were conspiring to steal a hundred million euros from the European Union with or without the help of Gregory Black? Or did I care that the Roberts Family Trust had been duped out of five million pounds?

No, I decided. I didn’t care about either of those things.

And was I really bothered whether Jolyon Roberts had died of natural causes or if he’d been murdered?

No, I suppose I didn’t even care about that. He had been a nice enough man, and I was sorry he was dead, but it didn’t make any real difference to me how he’d died.

But I did care that someone had killed Herb Kovak, and I cared very much more that they were trying to kill me too.

“So what, exactly, do you want?” Ben Roberts asked belligerently from somewhere above my eye line.

“I want what is right,” I said. Whatever that meant.

And, I thought, I want to live a long and happy life with my future wife.

I looked up at his face. “What is it that you want?” I asked back. He didn’t answer, and I went on looking at him. “Your uncle told me you wanted to change the world.”

He laughed. “Uncle J was always saying that.”

“And is it true?” I asked.

He thought for a moment.

“It’s true that I want to be a politician,” he said. “And all politicians hope to be in power. To be in a position to make the changes they believe in, otherwise there’d be no point.” He paused. “So, yes, I suppose I do want to change the world. And for the better.”

“For the better, as you see it,” I said.

“Obviously.”

“So,” I said, “is it for the better that you value your family’s reputation ahead of doing what is right by your late uncle?”

He sat down again and stared at me.

“What’s your real name?” he asked.

“Foxton,” I said. “Nicholas Foxton. I am a financial adviser with Lyall and Black, the same firm where Gregory Black works.”

“Well, Mr. Nicholas Foxton, financial adviser, what is it that you really want?” he asked. “And why have you come here?”

“I need to find out more about your family’s investment in the Bulgarian project,” I said. “I simply don’t have enough information to take my concerns to the authorities. They’d probably laugh at me. All I have are some copies of the original transaction report, some e-mails between someone in Brussels and a man in Bulgaria, and a sackful of suspicion. And now that your uncle is dead, I can’t ask him.”

“So why don’t you go and ask Gregory Black?” he said.

“Because I’m not altogether sure that I trust him.” In fact, I was sure I didn’t.

“OK. I’ll speak to my father about it,” Ben said. “But I can tell you now, he won’t like it, and he probably won’t talk to you.”

“Ask him anyway,” I said.

“How do I contact you?” he asked.

“Leave a message on my mobile.” I gave him the number, which he stored on his own phone.

“Please speak to him soon.”

“I’m going home tonight for the weekend,” Ben said. “I’ll try to find the right moment to speak to him on Sunday afternoon. He’s always at his most relaxed after a good Sunday lunch.”

I hoped it would be soon enough.

“Bit early, isn’t it?” I said, looking at my watch and declining the offered glass of Chardonnay.

“Early?” Claudia said with a giggle. “We started at lunchtime.”

The others giggled with her.

“Are you sure it’s wise to drink so soon after surgery?” I asked. “Especially on top of your painkillers.”

“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Jan said amid more sniggering.

What a fine state of affairs, I thought. I was trying to keep us alive, and my mother and fiancée were drunk.

“So what have you done today other than drink?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Jan said. “We’ve been talking, that’s all.”

“I thought you’d be at the races,” I said to her.

“No runners today,” she said. “But I’ve got to go now to evening stables.” She stood up with a slight wobble and giggled again. “Oops, I think I’ve had a bit too much.”

A lot too much, I thought. But, what the hell, it was Friday afternoon, and it had been quite a week.

I left them refilling their glasses and went upstairs to fetch my computer. I then used Jan’s broadband to connect to the Internet and checked my e-mails. As always, there were the usual collection from fund managers, but nestling amongst them, was one from Patrick Lyall. It was timed at three-fifty p.m. He had clearly become fed up waiting for me to return his call, telling him where to send the letter. I could almost feel the anger as I read it.

“Nicholas,” he had written, “As you have obviously decided not to reply to my telephone call asking for your whereabouts, I have no option but to deliver the attached letter to you by e-mail. I find the whole situation most unsatisfactory. I hope that you soon come to your senses and start giving the firm the priority it deserves. Patrick.”

I clicked on the attachment. It was a letter from the lawyer, Andrew Mellor, acting on behalf of Lyall & Black. There were no niceties, and the letter was very much to the point.

Strangely, I didn’t seem to care anymore. Perhaps that policeman at Aintree had been right all along—becoming a financial adviser had been a bit of a comedown from the thrill of being a jump jockey.

Maybe it was time for me to look for more excitement in my life?

Like being shot at? Or stabbed?

I think not. I’d had enough of that.

“So who knocked you off your bike?” I asked him.

“Don’t you bloody start,” he said. “The fuzz have been asking me nothing else but that since I woke up.”

“So why don’t you tell them?” I said.

“Are you f-ing stupid or something?” he said. “I’d rather go on living, thank you very much.”

“So it wasn’t an accident?” I said.

“I didn’t say that. It might have been.”

“Now who’s being f-ing stupid?” I said.

He stuck a finger up at me and said nothing.

We were in a single room, hidden away at the far end of one of the wards. It had taken me three separate requests to find him as well as a security escort that had only departed after Billy had vouched for me as his friend, not foe.

“How much longer are you going to be here?” I asked him. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere soon as he was firmly attached to the bed by a weights contraption that was pulling on his right leg.

“About another week,” he said. “At least that’s what they tell me. They need to apply something called a fixator to my leg, but they can’t do that until the traction has pulled everything straight. Then I’ll be able to get up.”

“I thought they pinned and plated broken legs these days.”

“I did too,” he said. “But the doc here says that this is the best way, and who was I to argue?” He grinned. Both he and I knew that Billy Searle argued all the time. “Anyway, I was f-ing unconscious at the time.”

“They thought you were going to die,” I said.

“No bloody chance,” he replied, still grinning.

“And I was arrested for your attempted murder.”

“Yeah,” he said. “So I heard. Serves you right.”

“What for?” I said.

He laughed. “For being such a boring bastard.”

Was I really boring?

“I’m sorry.”

“You were much more fun as a jock,” Billy said. “Do you remember that time we all got thrown out of that f-ing hotel in Torquay after your big win at Newton Abbot?”

I smiled. I remembered it well. “It was all your fault,” I said. “You poured champagne into their grand piano.”

“Yeah, well, so maybe I did,” he said. “But it was a crap piano anyway. And it was you throwing those potted plants round that did for us in the end.”

It was true, I thought. The plants had come out of their pots, and the earth had spread all over the new carpet. The hotel manager had not been at all pleased. We had been politely asked to leave, and never to come back, or else he would call the police.

Billy and I laughed together at the memory.

“Those were the days,” he said. “Carefree and bloody stupid, we were.”

“But such fun,” I said, still laughing.

For both of us, it seemed, fun had been on the wane recently.

“So to whom do you owe a hundred grand?” I asked. The laughter died in Billy’s throat. But he didn’t answer. “Was it the same guy who tried to kill you?”

He still didn’t answer. He just looked at me.

“Or was he just trying to give you a gentle reminder to pay up, a reminder that went too far?”

“Did the bloody cops tell you to ask me that?” he said crossly.

“No, of course not,” I said. “They don’t even know I’m here.”

“So why are you so bloody interested in me all of a sudden?” The bonhomie of just a couple of minutes previously had disappeared completely.

“Billy. I’m just trying to help you,” I said.

“I don’t need your fucking help,” he said explosively, just as he’d done outside the Weighing Room at Cheltenham.

“That’s what you said to me once before and you ended up in here. Next time, it might be the morgue.”

He lay back against the hospital pillows and said nothing.

“All right,” I said. “If you won’t tell me who, at least tell me why you owe someone a hundred thousand. Then I can properly advise you about your financial dealings.”

“I can’t,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “Even if I didn’t end up dead, which I probably would, I’d have no bloody job left.”

“Against the rules of racing,” I quoted, somewhat self-righteously.

He turned his head and gave me a sideways look.

“Actually, no. At least not that time. That’s what’s so bloody ironic.”

He paused.

“What’s ironic?” I prompted.

“Are you sure you’re not working for the fuzz?”

“I swear on a bottle of champagne in a grand piano,” I said with a smile.

“And some separated f-ing plants?” he asked, smiling also.

“Them too,” I said, placing my right hand over my heart.

He thought for a while longer, as if still debating whether or not to tell me.

“I won a race I should have lost,” he said finally.

“What do you mean, a race you should have lost?”

“I told him I’d lose, but then I went and bloody won it,” he said.

“That was rather careless of you.”

“No, not really,” he said. “I did it on purpose. I was so fed up with that bastard Vickers overtaking me in the championship, I was trying to win on everything I rode. Fat lot of good it did me. I’ve come bloody second yet again.”

“So who was it that you told you’d lose the race?”

He thought for a moment.

“Sorry, mate,” he said. “I can’t tell you that. My f-ing life wouldn’t be worth tuppence.”

“Is he a bookie?” I asked.

“No,” he said with certainty. “He’s a bloody nob.”

I expect, to Billy, anyone who spoke the Queen’s English without a liberal scattering of swear words would be classed as a nob.

“Which nob in particular?” I asked.

“I’m not saying,” he said. “But even if I did you wouldn’t f-ing believe it.”

“And does this nob still want his hundred thousand?”

“I expect so,” he said. “That’s what he claims he lost because I won the race. But I haven’t actually talked to him since this little caper. Perhaps I’ll tell him to bugger off. A broken leg must be worth a hundred grand at least.”

“Tell him you’ll enlighten the cops as to the identity of your attacker if he doesn’t leave you alone.”

“Don’t be bloody naïve,” he said. “These sort of guys don’t mess about. Telling him that would get me killed for sure.”

“Sounds to me like you’re in trouble if you do say who attacked you, and also if you don’t.”

“You are so right,” he said. “Once you say yes to them the first time, you’re bloody hooked for life. They’ve got you by the balls, and there’s no way out.” He leaned his head back against the white pillows, and I thought there were tears in his eyes.

“Billy,” I said. “There never will be a way out unless you fight back.”

“Well, count me out,” he said adamantly without moving. “I am not going to be first over-the-top to be shot down. I value my jockey’s license.”

“So how often have you stopped one?” I asked.

“Too bloody often,” he said.

I was surprised. Billy didn’t have a reputation as being a fixer.

“About ten times altogether, I suppose,” he said. “Spread over the past three years or so. But I decided there would be no more when Frank Miller broke his leg in December and I finally had the chance to be champion jockey.”

“But then young Mark Vickers pops up to beat you.”

“The bastard,” he said with feeling. “It’s not bloody fair.”

Life wasn’t fair, I thought. Ask anyone with cancer.

Claudia was beginning to think I was becoming paranoid, but I would rather be paranoid than dead. And I only had to mention the dead gunman for her to agree to almost anything.

“But how much longer do we need to stay here?” she asked. “I want to go home.”

“I do too, my darling,” I said. “We will go home just as soon as it is safe.”

I had asked Jan over breakfast how much longer we could stay.

“How long do you need?” she’d asked.

“I don’t know. Another few days at least.”

“I’ll need you out by next Friday at the latest,” she’d said. “I’ve got my sister and her family coming for the weekend.”

By next Friday we would have been here for eight nights.

“I sincerely hope it won’t be as long as that,” I’d said. But, in truth, I had no real idea when it might be safe to go home.

“That’s a shame,” Jan had said. “I’m quite enjoying the company. I get so bored here on my own since my divorce.”

I logged on to the Internet and checked my e-mails. There were none—it had to be the weekend. With the exception of dealings on foreign markets, which could extend the working week for a few hours at either end, all financial services in the UK usually went to sleep at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon and awoke again at eight on Monday morning, as if the weekend had never been.

Except, of course, for interest, which was charged daily on loans whatever day of the week it was.

I used online banking to check on my personal accounts.

Things might be going to get quite tight if I did lose my job at Lyall & Black. I had managed to save quite well over the previous five years, but much of it had been used to pay off the debts that I’d run up as a student.

Whilst I might regularly handle investments for others of hundreds of thousands, even millions, of pounds, my own nest egg was much more modest.

Historically, the stock market has always outperformed fixed-interest investments, such as bank accounts, certificates of deposit, and government bonds. However, stock markets are very susceptible to even minor changes in investor confidence and can fluctuate quite dramatically, especially downwards. For long-term investment, say over ten or twenty years or more, the stock market is considered to be the best, but if you need your money out sooner, the risk that the market may go down suddenly just before you need it would be too great and more lower-risk assets may be better. Consequently, as an investor gets older, and the time for buying a pension becomes nearer, the balance tends to move away from high-risk stocks and further towards the “safer” bonds.

In my case, with my expected pension requirement still a long way over the horizon, my savings were almost totally in equities. I would ride the stock market roller coaster but hope, and expect, the underlying trend to be upwards.

If I did get fired from my job, I might need to live off my savings for a while. And then what would I do? Billy had accused me of being boring, but it wasn’t me that was boring, I decided, it was my job. I needed more excitement in my life, more adrenaline rushing through my veins, but not necessarily due to having a silenced pistol pointed at me.

But what could I do? I was trained and qualified only to be a financial adviser. But what I wanted to be most was a jockey or a rodeo rider or a free-fall-skydiving instructor or a crocodile fighter or . . .

Bugger my dodgy neck.

My mother interrupted my depressing thoughts by asking me what I wanted for lunch.

“What have we got?” I asked.

“Jan said we can use whatever we want from the fridge or from the larder.”

“So what is there?” I said.

“Come and have a look.”

In truth, there wasn’t very much to choose from, just a few low-calorie meals-for-one in the freezer, with more bare shelves than anything in the larder. Old Mother Hubbard would have felt quite at home.

“Time to go shopping,” I said.

So the three of us piled into the unremarkable blue rental car and went to a huge supermarket on the outskirts of Newbury in order to fill the empty spaces in Jan’s fridge and larder. It was the least we could do as uninvited guests.

While Claudia and my mother went from aisle to aisle, loading two large trolleys with mountains of food, I was banished by them to the clothing section.

I browsed through the rails of shirts and trousers, jackets and suits, but, sadly, this particular supermarket didn’t stock bulletproof vests.