Suspicion gripped him, chaotic as smoke at first. Was it stolen? A bribe? Surely not something left behind by a lover? Signe might eat cavalier young riders for frokost, but Mishaal was barely legal.

‘What is going on, Signe?’ The expensive imported vodka, the dedicated seduction, the lock-in. It all added up. ‘What’s Mishaal up to?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She kept her head turned away. She had another tattoo at the top of her spine, an intricately lacy dreamcatcher. Luca would have given anything to wake up right now and find this was all a nightmare.

‘He’s doing something to the horse, isn’t he? To Bechstein?’

She let out a guilty whimper, covering her mouth with her hand.

‘Just fucking tell me! What’s Mishaal up to?’

‘I’m supposed to keep you busy,’ she whispered. ‘I think he’s paid the nightman to dope him. That’s all I know.’

He turned and sprinted towards the fire escape. For a moment a Swedish flag blocked his way and Signe begged him to stay, pleading that she would be fired.

‘It’s only a bit of dope!’ she protested, believing it.

But Luca had seen the boy’s humiliation and anger close up, how incensed he was that the horse refused to jump for him. He was a vindictive character whose cruelty to his sisters, staff and horses Luca had witnessed more than once. To spare his own dishonour, Mishaal would make sure Bechstein could jump for no man.

He pushed Signe aside and clambered out onto the fire escape at the back of the staff accommodation, a narrow first-floor walkway that connected all the apartments, overshadowed by the big American barn housing the most valuable competition horses in state-of-the-art, temperature-controlled luxury.

As he sprinted along towards the ladder, Luca could hear an eerie, feral sound coming from inside the building. It was something he’d heard only a few times, always a precursor to tragedy. A horse screaming, terrified and in pain.

The stallion was fighting for his life.

PART ONE

1

It was New Year’s Eve, and the Saddle Bags were hacking around the village of Compton Bagot. Bright winter sunshine had burned off the early frost, the quartet of long shadows mounted on giant black silhouette horses far slimmer than the four women felt.

Bridge Mazur’s shadow – a head shorter and a lot hairier than the others thanks to her helmet bobble and fake fur jacket – was bouncing around a lot as her grey Connemara pony Craic took exception to the flashing icicle lights around the eaves of the Old Post Office.

‘I swear I’m still sweating cream liqueur,’ Petra complained beside her.

‘I’ve got a muffin top – and bottom,’ panted Mo from behind.

‘Let’s step this up, shall we?’ Front rider Gill led them into a vigorous rising trot. ‘There’s half a stone of cheese, assorted nuts and Shiraz on each of these thighs.’

‘I raise you two loosened belt notches in honour of jakbłecznik and makowiec,’ Bridge said as Craic bunny-hopped forwards, vying to be in front.