Story of my life, I thought.
At least, it had been the story of my life until I'd left home to join the army. It seemed to me that Ian was already on the road to somewhere else. It was a shame. I'd seen him working with the horses, and even I could see that he was good, calming the younger ones and standing no nonsense from the old hands. He also had a passion for them, and he longed for them to win. Losing Ian Norland would be a sad day for Kauri House Stables.
"Have you been looking?" I asked.
"There's a possibility of a new stable opening that's quite exciting," he said, suddenly more alive. "It's some way off yet, but I'm going to keep my options open. But don't you go telling your mother. She'd be furious."
He was right, she would be furious. She demanded absolute loyalty from everyone around her, but sadly, she repaid it in short measure, and she wasn't about to change now.
"Which stables?" I asked.
"Rumor has it that one of the trainers in the village is going to open up a second yard, and he'll be needing a new assistant to run it. I thought I might apply."
"Which trainer?" I asked.
"Ewen Yorke," he said. "Apparently, he's buying Greystone Stables."
He'd have to fix the broken pane in the tack-room window.
The statements of the bank account of Rock Bank (Gibraltar)
Ltd were most revealing.
I had spent the afternoon rereading all the e-mails that I had downloaded from Alex Reece's computer inbox and sent-items folder, as well as the Gibraltar folder. Quite a few of the e-mails were communications back and forth with someone named Sigurd Bellido, the senior cashier at the real Gibraltar bank that held the Rock Bank Ltd account, discussing the transfer of funds in and out. Unfortunately, there were no references to account names and numbers from which, and to which, the transfers were made, although strangely they all discussed the ongoing health of Mr. Bellido's mother-in-law.
When, at two in the morning, I logged on to the online banking system in my mother's office, I could see that the recent transfers discussed with Mr. Bellido were reflected in the various changes to the account balance.
As Alex had said, money periodically came into the account, presumably from the "investors" in the UK, and then left again about a week later. If Alex was right, it disappeared eventually into some secret Swiss account belonging to Garraway or Warren.
I looked particularly at the transactions for the past week to see if they showed any evidence of the "company business" that Jackson had referred to in his e-mail.
There had been two large deposits. Both were in American dollars, one for one million and the other for two million. A couple more mugs, I thought, duped into investing in a nonexistent hedge fund.
One of the deposits, the two million dollars, had a name attached to it-Toleron. I knew I'd heard that name before, but I couldn't place where, so I typed "Toleron" into the Google search on my computer, and it instantly gave me the answer.
"Toleron Plastics" appeared across my screen in large red letters, with "the largest drainpipe manufacturer in Europe" running underneath in slightly smaller ones. Mrs. Martin Toleron had been the rather boring lady I'd sat next to at Isabella's kitchen supper, who would, it appeared, very soon be finding out that her "wonderful" husband wasn't quite as good at business as she had claimed. I almost felt sorry for her.
Had that really been only eleven days ago? So much had happened in the interim.
I searched further for Mr. Martin Toleron. Nearly every reference was connected with the sale of his company the previous November to a Russian conglomerate, reputedly adding more than a hundred million dollars to his personal fortune.
Suddenly I didn't feel quite so sorry for his wife over the loss of a mere two million.
As Alex would have said, they could afford it.
Early on Tuesday morning, while my mother was away on the gallops watching her horses exercise, I borrowed Ian Norland's car once more, and went to see Mr. Martin Toleron.
According to the Internet, he lived in the village of Hermitage, a few miles to the north of Newbury, and I found the exact address easily enough by asking directions in the village shop.
"Oh yes," said the plump middle-aged woman behind the counter. "We all know the Tolerons round here, especially Mrs. Toleron." Her tone implied that Mrs. Toleron wasn't necessarily the most welcome of customers in the shop. I thought it might have had something to do with the never-ending praise of her "wonderful" husband or, more likely, was just straightforward envy of the rich.
Martin Toleron's house, near the edge of the village on the Yattenden Road, was a grand affair, in keeping with his "captain of industry" billing. I pulled up in front of the firmly closed six-foot-high iron gates and pushed the button on the intercom box fixed to the gatepost, but I wasn't quite sure what I was going to say if someone answered.
"Hello," said a man's voice through the box.
"Mr. Toleron?" I asked.
"Yes," the man said.
"Mr. Martin Toleron?"
"Yes." He sounded a little impatient.
"My name is Thomas Forsyth," I said. "I'd like to-"
"Look, I'm sorry," he replied, cutting me off. "I don't take cold calls at my gate. Good-bye." There was a click, and the box went dead.
I pushed the button again. No reply, so I pushed it once more, and for much longer.
Eventually, he came back on the line. "What do you want?" he asked, with increased impatience.
"Does Rock Bank Ltd of Gibraltar mean anything to you?" I asked.
There was a pause before he replied, "Who did you say you are?"
"Open the gates and you'll find out," I said.
"Stay there," he said. "I'm coming out."
I waited, and soon a small, portly man emerged, walking down the driveway towards me. I vaguely remembered him from Isabella's supper even though we hadn't spoken. Looks, I thought, could be deceiving. Martin Toleron didn't give the appearance of being a multimillionaire captain of industry, but then again, Alexander the Great had hardly been an Adonis, having reputedly been very short, with a twisted neck and different-colored eyes, one blue and the other brown.
Martin Toleron stopped some ten feet from the gates.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Just to talk," I said.
"Are you from the tax authorities?" he asked.
I thought it a strange question, but perhaps he was afraid I was going to hand him a summons.
"No," I said. "I was at the same dinner party as you, at Jackson and Isabella Warren's place last week. I sat next to your wife."
He took a couple of paces towards the gates and squinted at me.
"But what do you want?" he said again.
"I want to talk to you about Rock Bank Ltd and the investment you have just made with them in Gibraltar."
"That's none of your business," he said.
I didn't reply but stood silently, waiting for curiosity to get the better of him.
"And how do you know about it?" he asked, as I knew he would.
"I think it might be better for us to go inside to discuss this rather than to shout a conversation through these gates where anyone could overhear us. Don't you agree?"
He obviously did agree, because he removed a small black box from his pocket and pushed a button. The gates swung open as I returned to Ian's car.
I parked on the gravel drive in front of the mock-Georgian front door and pillared portico of his modern redbrick mansion.
"Come into my office," Martin Toleron said, leading the way past the grand front door to a smaller one set between the main house and an extensive garage block. I followed him into a large oak-paneled room with a built-in matching oak desk and book-cases behind it.