'Does he still go camping? Your father, I mean?'

'No. My mother got arthritis and refused to go any more, and he didn't have much fun without her. He's worked in a bank in the Cayman Islands for three or four years now. It's good for my mother's health.'

Gareth asked simply, 'Where are the Cayman Islands?'

'In the Caribbean, south of Cuba, west of Jamaica.'

'What do you want me to do with these breadcrumbs?'

'Put them in the frying pan.'

'Have you ever been to the Cayman Islands?'

'Yes,' I said, 'I went for Christmas. They sent me the fare as a present.'

'You are lucky,' Gareth said.

I paused from cutting up the beef. 'Yes,' I agreed, thinking about it. 'Yes, I am. And grateful. And you've got a good father, too.'

He seemed extraordinarily pleased that I should say so, but it seemed to me, unconventional housekeeping or not, that Tremayne was making a good job of his younger son.

Notwithstanding Tremayne's professed lack of interest in food he clearly enjoyed the pie, which three healthy appet.i.tes polished off to the last fried crumb. I got promoted instantly to resident chef, which suited me fine. Tomorrow I could do the shopping, Tremayne said, and without ado pulled out his wallet and gave me enough to feed the three of us for a month, though he said it was for a week. I protested it was too much and he kindly told me I had no idea how much things cost. I thought wryly that I knew how much things cost to the last anxious penny, but there was no point in arguing. I stowed the money away and asked them what they didn't like.

'Broccoli,' Gareth said instantly. 'Yuk.'

'Lettuce,' said Tremayne.

Gareth told his father about fried worms and asked me if I had any of the travel guides with me.

'No, sorry, I didn't think of bringing them.'

'Couldn't we possibly get some? I mean, I'd buy them with my pocket money. I'd like to keep them. Are they in the shops?'

'Sometimes, but I could ask the travel company to send a set,' I suggested.

'Yes, do that,' Tremayne said, 'and I'll pay for them. We'd all like to look at them, I expect.'

'But Dad-' Gareth protested.

'All right,' Tremayne said, 'get two sets.'

I began to appreciate Tremayne's simple way of solving problems and in the morning, after I'd driven him on the tractor up to the Downs to see the horses exercise, and after orange juice, coffee and toast, I phoned my friend in the travel agency and asked him to organise the books.

'Today?' he said, and I said, 'Yes, please,' and he said he would Red-Star-parcel them by train, if I liked. I consulted Tremayne who thought it a good idea and told me to get them sent to Didcot station where I could go to pick them up when I went in to do the shopping.

'Fair enough,' the friend said. 'You'll get them this afternoon.'

'My love to your aunt,' I said, 'and thanks.'

'She'll swoon.' He laughed. 'See you.'

Tremayne began reading the day's papers, both of which carried the results of the trial. Neither paper took any particular stance either for or against Nolan, though both quoted Olympia's father at length. He came over as a sad, obsessed man whose natural grief had turned to self-destructive anger and one could feel sorry for him on many counts. Tremayne read and grunted and pa.s.sed no opinion.

The day slowly drifted into a repet.i.tion of the one before. Dee-Dee came into the kitchen for coffee and instructions and when Tremayne had gone out again with his second lot of horses I returned to the boxes of clippings in the dining-room.

I decided to reverse yesterday's order; to start at the most recent clippings and work backwards.

It was Dee-Dee, I had discovered, who cut the sections out of the newspapers and magazines, and certainly she had been more zealous than whoever had done it before her, as the boxes for the last eight years were much fuller.

I laid aside the current box as it was still almost empty and worked through from January to December of the previous year, which had been a good one for Tremayne, embracing not only his Grand National win with Top Spin Lob but many other successes important enough to get the racing hacks excited. Tremayne's face smiled steadily from clipping after clipping including, inappropriately, those dealing with the death of the girl, Olympia.

Drawn irresistibly, I read a whole batch of accounts of that death from a good many different papers, the number of them suggesting that someone had gone out and bought an armful of everything available. In total, they told me not much more than I already knew, except that Olympia was twice described as a 'jockette', a word I somehow found repulsive. It appeared that she had ridden in several ladies' races at point-to-point meetings which one paper, to help the ignorant, described as 'the days the hunting cla.s.ses stop chasing the fox and chase each other instead'. Olympia the jockette had been twenty-three, had come from a 'secure suburban background and had worked as an instructor in a riding-school in Surrey. Her parents, not surprisingly, were said to be 'distraught'.

Dee-Dee came into the dining-room offering more coffee and saw what I was reading.

'That Olympia was a s.e.x-pot bimbo,' she remarked flatly. 'I was there at the party and you could practically smell it. Secure little suburban riding instructor, my foot.'

'Really?'

'Her father made her out to be a sweet innocent little saint. Perhaps he even believes it. Nolan never said any different because it wouldn't have helped him, so no one told the truth.'

'What was the truth?'

'She had no underclothes on,' Dee-Dee said calmly. 'She wore only a long scarlet strapless dress slit halfway up her thigh. You ask Mackie. She knows, she tried to revive her.'

'Er- quite a lot of women don't wear underclothes,' I said.

'Is that a fact?' She gave me an ironic look.

'My blushing days are over.'

'Well, do you or don't you want any coffee?'

'Yes, please.'

She went out to the kitchen and I continued reading clippings, progressing from 'no action on the death at Sh.e.l.lerton House' to 'Olympia's father brings private prosecution' and 'Magistrates refer Nolan Everard case to Crown Court'. A sub judice silence then descended and the clippings stopped.

It was after a bunch of end-of-jumping-season statistics that I came across an oddity from a Reading paper published on a Friday in June.

'Girl groom missing', read the headline, and there was an accompanying photo of Tremayne, still looking cheerful.

Angela Brickell, 17, employed as a 'lad' by prominent racehorse trainer Tremayne Vickers, failed to turn up for work on Tuesday afternoon and hasn't been seen in the stables since. Vickers says lads leave without notice all too often, but he is puzzled that she didn't ask for pay due to her. Anyone knowing Angela Brickell's whereabouts is asked to get in touch with the police.

Angela Brickell's parents, like Olympia's, were reported to be 'distraught'.

CHAPTER 6.