‘Might be tricky,’ Luca managed to say, his mind back in that stable: Beck facing destruction having fought for his life; the death-row pardon; the curse from the hospital bed, Mishaal quietly awaiting payback time. He couldn’t think fast enough to get out of this.

‘There’s a matter of importance I wish to discuss,’ said Mishaal, his monotone steely.

‘How long are you here?’ Luca checked the rear-view mirror, jumpy as a getaway driver. He wondered where exactly Mishaal was.

‘I fly in one week and do not return until June.’

‘Sure, summer’s much better for me.’ Luca would be gone by then, as would Beck; he’d make sure of it. ‘I’ve only just started this job, you see, and it’s full-on.’

‘I have spoken with your employer and she has kindly invited me to visit. It is a part of the country I should like to see more of.’

Luca kicked into the car’s footwell. He’d been naïve imagining Mishaal wouldn’t know precisely where he was.

‘We must meet face to face, Luca,’ he was saying. ‘When are you available? Outside work hours, of course. This cannot wait any longer than necessary.’

Stay cool, Luca reminded himself. He’s a dutiful son making contact because his father ordered him to, the old prince convinced that Mishaal and the Horsemaker should build bridges, that Luca would help him win endurance races. They have no idea Beck is here. Bluff. A week passes very quickly. ‘I don’t have my diary with me.’

‘Then let us speak again when you do.’ With a sharp beep, the call was ended. A moment later a vCard was texted through with multiple numbers, emails and even an IBAN code. Maybe he wants to blackmail me? Luca wondered illogically, blood thrumming in his ears. Was there a price for what he’d lost? ‘It is written in the Qur’an and in your Bible: an eye for an eye!’

He thumped the steering wheel, glaring out at the lane. Pax was right. It was craziness being parked up here like a cabbie when he should be looking after the horses. He started the engine, for a moment not caring if he drove off and left her here. The radio burst into life: Jess Glynn singing ‘Don’t Be So Hard On Yourself’.

Knott, who had been asleep on the back seat, scrambled his way over the central console and came to sit in Luca’s lap, licking his chin. Luca stroked him distractedly, listening to the song. Every word of it could be about Pax. Or him. He cut the engine.

As he did, he could hear a man’s raised voice out of sight behind the car, a familiar soundtrack from the stud in the past week. He’d only ever seen Mack from a distance – not hard to spot his thick-set bulk and the way he used it to put his wife in reverse, Ginger Rogers dancing backwards around the cobbles – but his voice carried like a dictator at a rally.