I had again left Kauri House in Ian's car well before dawn, and before the lights had gone on in my mother's bedroom. I'd driven out of the village along the Wantage Road and had chanced driving in through the open gates of Greystone Stables, and up the tarmac driveway. I'd crept forwards slowly, scanning the surface in front of me in the glow of the headlights. My two sticks remained exactly where I'd left them, leaning on the small stones. Still no cars had been driven up here since the gates had been unlocked.
It had been a calculated risk to drive up to the sticks, but no more so than leaving the car down by the gate and walking. As it was, I'd been there no more than a minute in total.
I had then driven on into Wantage and parked in the market square under the imposing statue of King Alfred the Great with his battle-ax in one hand and roll of parchment in the other, designed to depict the Saxon warrior who became the lawgiver.
I'd bought the Racing Post from a newsagent in the town, not having wanted to buy one at the shop in Lambourn village in case I was spotted by someone who thought I was dead, or dying.
According to the paper, Ewen Yorke had seven horses running that afternoon at two different racetracks: three at Haydock Park and four at Ascot, including two in their big race of the day, the Group 1 Make-a-Wager Gold Cup.
Haydock was about midway between Manchester and Liverpool, and a good three hours' drive away. Ascot, meanwhile, was much closer, in the same county as Lambourn, and just a fifty-minute trip down the M4 motorway, with maybe a bit extra to allow for race-day traffic.
Ewen had a runner in the first race at both courses, and if he was going to be at Haydock Park in time for the first, he would be expected to drive his distinctive top-of-the-range white BMW up the hill on the Baydon Road sometime around ten o'clock, and by ten-thirty at the very latest.
So I sat and waited some more.
I turned on the car radio, but like the handbrake, it didn't work too well. In fact, it made an annoying buzzing noise even when the engine wasn't running. It was worse than having no radio at all, so I turned it off again.
I looked at the new watch I'd bought in Newbury the previous afternoon. It told me it was nine-thirty.
At nine forty-five I recognized a car coming up the hill towards me. It wasn't a white BMW but an aging and battered blue Ford-my mother's car.
I sank down as far as I could in the seat as she drove by, hoping that she wouldn't identify the vehicle in the gateway as that of her head lad. Even if she'd done so, I knew she wouldn't have stopped to enquire after "staff," and I gratefully watched as her car disappeared around the next corner. As I had expected, my mother was off to the Haydock Park races, where she had Oregon running in the novice hurdle, his last outing before the Triumph Hurdle at the Cheltenham Festival. Ian had told me that he was looking forwards to watching the race on Channel 4.
I went back to watching and waiting, but there was no sign of a white BMW.
At ten to eleven I decided it was time to move. I hadn't seen Ewen's car go past, but that didn't mean he hadn't gone to Haydock, it just meant he hadn't gone there via the Baydon Road. It was the most likely route from the Yorkes' house but certainly not the only one.
I moved Ian's car from the gateway on Baydon Road to another similarly positioned on Hungerford Hill, another of the roads out of Lambourn. If Ewen Yorke was going to Ascot this afternoon he would almost certainly pass this way, and would do so by twelve-thirty at the absolute latest if he was going to be in time to saddle his runner in the first race.
The distinctive white top-of-the-range BMW swept up the hill at five minutes to twelve, and I pulled out of the gateway behind it.
I had planned to follow him at a safe distance to avoid detection, and to make sure that he actually did drive to the motorway and join it going east towards Ascot. As it was, I had no need to worry about keeping far enough back so that the driver couldn't see that it was me behind him. Ian Norland's little Corsa struggled up Hungerford Hill as fast as it could, but Ewen Yorke's powerful BMW was already long gone, and was well out of sight by the time I reached the top road by The Hare pub.
I didn't like doing it, but I'd have to assume that he had, in fact, gone to Ascot and that he wouldn't be back in Lambourn for at least the next five hours. Once upon a time I would have been able to check by watching the racing from Ascot on BBC television. That was sadly no longer the case, as, except for the Grand National, the BBC had cut back its jump-race coverage to almost nothing. Someone in that organization seemed to believe that if a sport didn't involve wheels, balls or skis, it was hardly worth reporting.
Instead, I pulled into the parking lot of The Hare and waited, watching the road to see if the white BMW came back. Maybe he had forgotten something and would return to get it.
He didn't.
I waited a full thirty minutes before I was sure enough that Ewen and his BMW were away for the afternoon. He wouldn't now have had enough time to return home and then make it to Ascot for the first race.
I drove the Corsa out of the pub's parking lot, down the hill to Lambourn village, and pulled up on the gravel driveway next to the Yorkes' front door.
Julie seemed surprised to see me, but maybe not so surprised as if she had believed me dead.
"What are you doing here?" she asked from behind the door through a six-inch gap.
"I thought you said at Newbury races to come and see you sometime," I said. "So here I am."
She blushed slightly across her neck.
"What's in the bag?" she asked, looking at the plastic bag I was holding.
"Champagne," I said.
She blushed again, and this time, it reached her cheeks.
"You had better come in, then," she said, opening the door wide for me to pass. She looked out beyond me, as if concerned that someone had seen my arrival. It was not just her who hoped they hadn't.
"How lovely," I said, admiring the white curved staircase in the hallway. "Which way's the bedroom?"
"My," she said with a giggle. "You are an eager boy."
"No time like the present," I said. "Is your husband in?"
"No," she said, giggling again. "He's gone to the races."
"I know," I said. "I watched him go."
"You are such a naughty boy," she said, wagging a finger at me.
"So what are you going to do about it, then?" I asked her.
She breathed deeply with excitement, her breasts rising and falling under her flimsy sweater.
"Get some glasses," I said, starting to climb the stairs. "Go on," I said, seeing her still standing in the hallway.
She skipped away while I continued up.
"In the guest room," she shouted. "On the left."
I went into the guest room on the left, and pulled back the duvet on the king-size bed.
A couple of life's little questions crossed my mind.
Was I really going to have sex with this woman?
I suppose it depended if she wanted it, and so far, the signs had been pretty positive. But did I want it too?
And there was one other pressing question.
Did I leave my leg on, or did I take it off?
On this occasion I decided that leaving it on was definitely better, especially as a quick getaway would be a likely necessity.
I went into the en suite bathroom. I thought briefly about having a shower, but it would mean taking off my leg and then putting it on again. The foot may have been waterproof, but the join between the real me and the false was not.
I stripped off, left my clothes on the bathroom floor and climbed into the bed, pulling the duvet up to my waist.