'The pathologist said in court today that she died from strangulation,' Mackie said, 'but that sometimes it takes very little pressure to kill someone. He said she died of vagal inhibition, which means the vagus nerve stops working, which it apparently can do fairly easily. The vagus nerve keeps the heart beating. The pathologist said it's always dangerous to clasp people suddenly round the neck, even in fun. But there's no doubt Nolan was furious with Olympia - that's the girl - and he had been furious all the evening, and the prosecution produced someone who'd heard him say, 'I'll strangle the b.i.t.c.h,' so that he had it in his mind to put his hands round her neck-' She broke off and sighed again. 'There wouldn't have been a trial at all except for Olympia's father. The pathologist's original report said it could so easily have been an accident that there wasn't going to be a prosecution, but Olympia's father insisted on bringing a private case against Nolan. He won't let up. He's obsessed. He was sitting there in court glaring at us.'

'If he'd had his way,' Tremayne confirmed, 'Nolan would have been behind bars all this time, not out on bail.'

Mackie nodded. 'The prosecution - and that's Olympia's father talking through his lawyers - wanted Nolan to be remanded in jail tonight, but the judge said no. So Nolan and Lewis have gone back to Lewis's house, and G.o.d knows what state they're in after the mauling they got in court. It's Olympia's father who deserves to be strangled for all the trouble he's caused.'

It seemed to me that on the whole it was Nolan who had caused the trouble, but I didn't say so.

'Well,' Tremayne said, shrugging, 'it happened in this house but it doesn't directly concern my family, thank G.o.d.'

Mackie looked as if she weren't so sure. 'They are our friends,' she said.

'Hardly even that,' Perkin said, looking my way. 'Fiona and Mackie are friends. That's where it starts. Mackie came to stay with Fiona, and I met her in Fiona's house-' he smiled briefly, 'and so, as they say, we were married.'

'And lived happily ever after,' Mackie finished loyally, though I reckoned if she were happy she worked at it. 'We've been married two years now. Two and a half, almost.'

'You won't put all this Nolan business in my book, will you?' Tremayne asked.

'I shouldn't think so,' I said, 'not if you don't want me to.'

'No, I don't. I was saying goodbye to some guests when that girl died. Perkin came to tell me, and I had to deal with it, but I didn't know her, she'd come with Nolan and I'd never met her before. She isn't part of my life.'

'All right,' I said.

Tremayne showed no particular relief, but just nodded. Seen in his own home, standing by his own fire, he was a big-bodied man of substantial presence, long accustomed to taking charge and ruling his kingdom. This was the persona, no doubt, that the book was to be about: the face of control, of worldly wisdom and success.

So be it, I thought. If I were to sing for my supper I'd sing the songs he chose. But meanwhile, where was the supper?

'In the morning,' Tremayne said to me, changing the subject and apparently tired of the trial and its tribulations, 'I thought you might come out with me to see my string at morning exercise.'

'I'd like to,' I said.

'Good. I'll wake you at seven. The first lot pulls out at seven-thirty, just before dawn. Of course at present, with this freeze, we can't do any schooling but we've got an all-weather gallop. You'll see it in the morning. If it should be snowing hard, we won't go.'

'Right.'

He turned his head to Mackie, 'I suppose you won't be out for first lot?'

'No, sorry. We'll have to leave early again to get to Reading.'

He nodded, and to me he said, 'Mackie's my a.s.sistant.'

I glanced at Mackie and then at Perkin.

'That's right,' Tremayne said, reading my thought.

'Perkin doesn't work for me. Mackie does. Perkin never wanted to be a trainer and he has his own life. Gareth- well- Gareth might take over from me one day, but he's too young to know what he'll want. But when Perkin married Mackie he brought me a d.a.m.ned smart a.s.sistant, and it's worked out very well.'

Mackie looked pleased at his audible sincerity and it seemed the arrangement was to Perkin's liking also.

'This house is huge,' Tremayne said, 'and as Perkin and Mackie couldn't afford much of a place of their own yet we divided it, and they have their private half. You'll soon get the hang of it.' He finished his drink and went to pour himself another. 'You can have the dining-room to work in,' he said to me over his shoulder. 'Tomorrow I'll show you where to find the cuttings, video tapes and form books, and you can take what you like into the dining-room. We'll fix up the video player there.'

'Fine,' I said. Food in the dining-room would be better, I thought.

Tremayne said, 'As soon as it thaws I'll take you racing. You'll soon pick it up.'

'Pick it up?' Perkin repeated, surprised. 'Doesn't he know about racing?'

'Not a lot,' I said.

Perkin raised ironic eyebrows. 'It's going to be some book.'

'He's a writer,' Tremayne said, a touch defensively. 'He can learn.'

I nodded to back him up. It was true that I had learned the habits and ways of life of dwellers in far places, and didn't doubt I could do the same to the racing fraternity at home in England. To listen, to see, to ask, to understand, to check; I would use the same method that I'd used six times before, and this time without needing an interpreter. Whether I could present Tremayne's life and times in a shape others would enjoy, that was the real, nagging, doubtful question.

Gareth at long last blew in with a gust of cold air and, stripping off an eye-dazzling psychedelic padded jacket, asked his father, 'What's for supper?'

'Anything you like,' Tremayne said, not minding.

'Pizza, then.' His gaze stopped on me. 'h.e.l.lo, I'm Gareth.'

Tremayne told him my name and that I would be writing the biography and staying in the house.

'Straight up?' the boy said, his eyes widening. 'Do you want some pizza?'

'Yes, please.'

'Ten minutes,' he said. He turned to Mackie. 'Do you two want some?'

Mackie and Perkin simultaneously shook their heads and murmured that they'd be off to their own quarters, which appeared to be what Gareth and Tremayne expected.

Gareth was perhaps five foot six with a strong echo of his father's self-confidence and a voice still half broken, coming out hoa.r.s.e and uneven. He gave me an all-over glance as if a.s.sessing what he'd got to put up with for the length of my visit and seemed neither depressed nor elated.

'I heard the weather news at Coconut's,' he told his father. 'Today's been the coldest for twenty-five years. Coconut's father's horses have their duvet rugs on under the jute.'

'So have ours,' Tremayne said. 'Did they forecast more snow?'

'No, just cold for a few more days. East winds from Siberia. Have you remembered to send my school fees?'

Tremayne clearly hadn't.

'If you'll just sign the cheque,' his son said, 'I'll give it to them myself. They're getting a bit fussed.'

'The cheque book's in the office,' Tremayne said.

'Right.' Gareth took his Joseph's coat with him out of the door and almost immediately returned. 'I suppose there isn't the faintest chance,' he said to me, 'that you can cook?'