‘Things die in the country, love,’ he said, pushing the hound down. ‘Badgers on the road, deer caught in wire. There’s carrion and carnage wherever you look. Don’t fret about it.’

I sighed gratefully. Didn’t speak, but felt lighter, less hunched.

‘And as I say, I’ve told your dad I’ll be having a discount next time.’ He was clearly very pleased with this. ‘And he wasn’t snitching on you, neither. As a matter of fact I already knew it was you, and he knew I knew, which was why he rang.’

I nodded, the Chinese whispers of the horsy world anathema to me; irrelevant too, so long as all was well.

‘Cup of tea?’ he asked as he turned to go inside. I glanced back at the car. ‘He’s asleep,’ he assured me, ‘and you’ll see him from the window.’

‘Thanks.’ I followed him in, surprised and pleased. I only knew Mark Harrison by repute, but knew enough to know he didn’t suffer fools, or even court much human company. And that he commanded huge respect. He was of indeterminate age, anywhere from a raddled thirty to a sprightly fifty, and a countryman like my dad; the type of man who, despite loving animals passionately, was no-nonsense and unsentimental about them – in my father’s case reserving his sentimentality for other things. But if I’d been expecting a carbon copy of my father’s living arrangements inside, I was surprised. Mark’s house was as neat as a pin. No saddles, bridles and whisky bottles littered proceedings here, just an immaculate three-piece suite with plumped-up cushions, a well-vacuumed carpet, and a row of gleaming glasses on the sideboard. The only hint that this was a horsy household were the banks of framed photographs on one wall: hounds, horses, puppy shows – some accompanied by rosettes, and very occasionally, people.

As he disappeared to boil the kettle, I crossed the room to study them. Beautiful hunters with hounds at their feet, puppies with raised tails and keen eyes; Mark as a young man, looking almost exactly the same as he did now, those sharp bright eyes in the smooth face, the clothes and the quality of the print the only hint the snap was taken some time ago. Some of the smaller ones were black and white, presumably from his father’s era: men in Harris tweeds and voluminous breeches. One photo, small and in colour, albeit faded by the sun, caught my eye. It was of a group of young people in their late teens or early twenties: a very pretty girl in dark glasses, two young men, one on either side of her, one of whom was Mark, and one …

‘Is that Sam Hetherington?’ I pointed in surprise at the boy with long hair, in jeans and a T-shirt, as Mark came back with a couple of mugs. He handed one to me and followed my gaze.

‘Day after his twenty-first birthday, aye. We’d tied one on the night before, make no mistake. Look at our eyes – like piss holes in the snow.’ He gave a quick bark of a laugh. ‘We had a lot of fun together, Sam and me.’ He sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘His father was the master, just as Sam is now, and my dad the huntsman.’ He pointed to a black and white photo of two men in hunting coats, taken outside a manor house years ago. ‘This cottage was part of the Mulverton estate then. Not now, though.’ He smiled. ‘I bought it off him, didn’t I? Sam was grateful too, he’s that strapped for cash. Death duties hit that family hard,’ he said grimly.

‘Oh. I didn’t know.’

‘That’s why he went back to America, to make some dosh.’

I held my breath. Somehow I felt if I was quiet, I might hear more. I was aware there was a lot I didn’t know and wanted to. But Mark was a taciturn man, and eventually I had to prod.

‘You knew him when you were little?’

‘Oh yeah, Sam and I grew up together. Played every single day as kids, and then he went away to school. Boarding, you know. But we rode and drank in the pubs all holidays long when he was back, until he went to New York, that is. It was one of them relationships the liberal luvvies wouldn’t understand; too feudal for them. They wouldn’t get their anxious little brains round me being in hunt service and him being lord of the manor. But it worked. Still does. He’s a good man, Sam. One of the best. Too bad his wife pissed off with that Chad Armitage.’

I turned. Stared at him. ‘What?’

‘I said too bad his wife did a runner with his best friend. There, that’s her, see?’ He jabbed a finger at a photo, and I turned back as if in a trance. He pointed out the pretty girl in the dark glasses. Very short hair, an elfin cut. Of course, it was Hope. Smiling coolly, confidently at the camera, two hungover lads beside her grinning sheepishly. Her chin was raised, her weight on the back foot. I turned back to Mark.

‘Hope was Sam’s wife?’

‘Briefly, yes. They were all at Harvard together. Sam and Hope got married very young, not long after that photo was taken, in fact, then she fell for his best friend, Chad. He took that picture. Anyway, she divorced Sam and married him instead.’

‘But …’ I was flabbergasted. Tried to marshal my thoughts. ‘But they’re all such friends. They all live near each other, ride out together, hunt –’

‘Oh, it all happened years ago. Chad and Hope have been together for ages now, got two kids, and Sam didn’t want to lose Chad’s friendship. When he was in the States, Chad’s family was like his own. He stayed with them in the holidays – the Hamptons and all that. And he’s a nice guy, Chad. But that Hope. She reels him in occasionally, you know?’

‘Who – Sam?’

‘That’s it.’

My mind raced. ‘But – why come back here, then? Why be near her?’

‘Perhaps he needs to be.’ He gave me that steady look again. ‘The Armitages came over here first because of Chad’s work. Bought a house in London, then a weekend cottage out here, because of course Hope knew the area from her days with Sam; it was only natural. Then Sam announces he’s leaving London too, dismisses the tenants, and takes over the reins at the Hall again, something he said he’d never do. Funny that.’

‘Because he can’t bear to be away from her?’ I breathed.

Mark shrugged. ‘Who knows? Not my business.’ He winked. ‘You learn a lot on the hunting field, though. Surprised your mate Angie hasn’t told you all this, but then again, she probably doesn’t know. She wasn’t about in the old days, although she acts like she was born and bred in the saddle.’

I licked my lips. ‘How long were they married for?’

‘Only a couple of years.’

‘So … a bit like going out with someone, really?’

‘Except he loved her enough to put a ring on her finger. Commit the rest of his life to her. And Sam’s not a man to do anything lightly.’

‘No.’

I returned my gaze to the photo again. God, poor Sam. That laughing, carefree young man, with his childhood friend, Mark, and his American girlfriend, who he’d brought home, soon to be his wife, looking about sixteen. Who he still loved? And who, as Mark had so eloquently put it, reeled him in occasionally. No wonder he’d looked haunted when her name was mentioned.

‘Was it Sam who told you about Peddler?’ I asked suddenly. He’d said Dad had rung to tell him, but that he already knew. ‘That it was my horse who kicked?’

‘No, Emma Harding did.’

‘Emma Harding!’

‘The one that was shacked up with your husband, love.’

I caught my breath. Who was this Mark Harrison? This countryman in his isolated cottage with his hounds, who seemed to have no domestic life of his own, but knew everything about everyone?

‘You knew my husband?’

‘Couldn’t miss him. They were down the road. Across that field over there, in the flint cottage.’ He jerked his head out of the window across the meadows, and I realized that, as the crow flew, Emma’s cottage, which I’d passed on the road, was surely not far. ‘I’d exercise my hounds in the summer past her back garden – how could I not know? Many an evening I’d go past with twelve couple and see him arrive at her back door on his bike, six o’clock, head to toe in blue nylon. Nothing subtle about his entrances.’

Six o’clock. The children’s bath time. Which Phil never made it home in time for. ‘It seems the whole world knew,’ I said, swallowing. ‘Except the wife, of course. Always the last.’

‘Ah, but you’re well shot of him now, aren’t you?’ he said gently, with a small smile. ‘And he surely got his comeuppance.’

‘He did,’ I agreed, and couldn’t help but smile back. I’d forgotten this man had a philosophical take on death.

‘She said she saw you look guilty as sin when Peddler was mentioned, and that she knew your horse kicked. Couldn’t come running across the field quick enough that evening to tell me, still in her hunting coat, she was. But when she bustled back to her own house, she got a nasty surprise herself. The police were on her doorstep.’

‘The police? Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Thought you’d know, love. Apparently it’s all over the village. Fraud of some sort. White collar. The kennel girl’s brother is a cop down at the station and says it’s something to do with business. Where she worked.’

‘Where she worked? You mean, at the bank?’ I said, in astonishment.

He made a non-committal face again. ‘No idea.’

I sat down slowly on the sofa behind me, bewildered; dimly aware of a very plump cushion in my back. But even more aware of something else. The investigation into the bank by the FSA. I’d thought it purely routine. Had told Sam as much. Ted Barker had assured me so. Although … he’d been worried enough to write to me about it, I realized suddenly. To alert me. Something Ted said months ago, at a dinner party at his house in Esher, came winging back; something about how the female high-flyer in the office sailed close to the wind. He’d said it with a smile as he’d mixed me a gin and tonic, but I’d detected a worried tone. It hadn’t meant much at the time. I’d never met the high-flyer. But they’d dropped her pretty smartly, hadn’t they? The bank? The moment Phil had died? I was aware of Mark looking at me.

‘She was dishonest,’ I whispered.

‘That’s what they say. And whatever it is she’s done, I can believe it. She’s a wrong ’un, that one. Anyway, she’s in police custody now.’

I stared up at him. ‘Emma Harding is in custody?’ I said incredulously.

‘I just said so, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, but …’ I struggled with the concept. ‘She can’t be in custody, not actually being held. She’s a successful businesswoman!’

He shrugged. ‘Thieving’s thieving, whoever you are.’

‘They took her in that night?’

‘No, just questioned her. Came back for her this morning. Seven o’clock they was on her doorstep. If you don’t believe me, love, ask Rob, the kennel boy. We was out back with the bitch pack, at the far end of the meadow. Watched as she answered the door in her dressing gown, then disappeared, white-faced, to get dressed. When she came back down the path to the police car she looked like she’d been shot.’

‘I bet she did.’

‘Her husband looked pretty grim too. He was in the hall, behind her. Rob said if ever a man needed a drink it was him.’

‘Oh, God.’ I inhaled sharply. ‘Simon. He must be devastated!’

‘I’d say so.’

My mind whirred as I tried to assimilate all this. Emma Harding, arrested. ‘He’s a good man, you know.’

‘Aye, but a foolish one. Not the first to fall for a pretty face, though, I’ll grant you.’

‘He fell years ago,’ I muttered.

‘I know he did. Thinks he’s getting the same girl. And in a way he is. She was a bitch then and she’s a bitch now.’

I looked at him, surprised. ‘You knew her then?’

‘I went to school with Emma Harding. The local village one, for all her airs and graces. She’d take the sweets from your desk and the rubbers from your pencil case. She was on the make then and she’s still on it now.’

We were silent a moment. I thought of her down at the police station. In a bare interrogation room, perhaps; a plain-clothes officer questioning her, a solicitor beside her. Or perhaps parochial stations like ours didn’t deal with fraud? Elsewhere, maybe. Somewhere distant. Was she frightened? No, defiant, I imagined. Ice cool. Head high, lips pursed. My heart began to beat. It certainly didn’t bleed for her, though.