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enquired.
    â€˜Mr Truman has been having a bit of trouble from a local splinter group calling themselves ALSA, which, I’m reliably informed, stands for Action for the Liberation of Sport Animals. They’re a fairly small group but well organised. They spend their time protesting about racehorses, greyhounds, animals in circuses, dog shows – you name it. If they had their way, all animals would be returned to the wild. They make a lot of noise but so far that’s pretty much all they have done. I have my doubts as to whether they would take on something like this.’
    â€˜They stole those greyhounds a couple of months ago.’ Truman was pacing the room now.
    â€˜Yes, but that was a publicity stunt. They handed them in to the RSPCA two days later. There were no threats.’
    â€˜They’ve sent
me
threatening letters,’ the trainer persisted. ‘I lost a horse in the King George on Boxing Day and had a flood of abusive letters. They sent a load more to the owner. It was the last straw for him; said he’d had enough, sold his other horse and quit racing altogether. They wrote to all the papers, even organised apetition. They can’t seem to understand that losing a horse upsets us just as much as it does them – more, really, because they’re personal friends to us. Some of the lads are depressed for days, for God’s sake. It’s not just about the money.’
    â€˜Didn’t you lose another one a week or two ago?’ Ben remembered. ‘Mikey said something about it.’
    â€˜Yeah, on the gallops. Stress fracture. Just suddenly went, mid-stride. Promising two-year-old, too. Bloody tragedy.’
    Taken at face value the words were almost casual, and Ben could see how the man’s attitude could be misconstrued by someone on the watch for evidence of brutality.
    â€˜I suppose they picked up on that too?’
    â€˜Oh yes. They don’t miss a bloody thing. And Sod’s Law made it happen on the gallops nearest the road. I think they’re up there most days; they seem to be on a personal crusade against me at the moment. Thing is, even if you could chase them away, you can’t tell them from the bloody journalists.’
    â€˜It’s a public highway,’ Ford reminded him.
    â€˜Yeah. Don’t I bloody know it? If it wasn’t such a perfect slope I’d shift the gallops somewhere else. It doesn’t seem right that you lot can’t do something about them.’
    â€˜Well, in future we should be able to do a bit more. New proposals are being put forward to deal with animals’ rights activists but I can’t promise the problem will go away entirely. It’s still got to be policed, and staffing numbers aren’t –as you well know – as high as they might be.’
    â€˜Bloody ridiculous, if you ask me! Don’t know what we pay our taxes for.’
    There was a tentative knock at the door; at Truman’s terse invitation it opened and Bess came in. She was carrying a tray holding a kettle, teabags, a jar of instant coffee, sugar, milk, mugs and spoons, and – especially welcome from Ben’s point of view – a large packet of digestive biscuits. Aside from a bag of crisps bought at a petrol station, he hadn’t eaten since six o’clock that evening.
    â€˜Thought you could probably do with a drink but I wasn’t sure how many were in here, so I brought the makings,’ she announced, putting the tray down on the end of Truman’s desk. ‘Any news?’
    Truman shook his head, coming to sit down. ‘Not yet.’
    Bess started to dispense coffee and tea according to preference. Ben eyed her thoughtfully before saying to Truman, ‘You’ve got, what, forty-odd staff? How do you propose to keep this thing a secret, with countless journalists eager for any snippet of news about the horses?’
    â€˜I don’t suppose we shall be able to in the long