'Don't lose that mailing list,' I said. 'Or the editor of Antiques will be cross.'

I booked unmolested into a motel and spent the evening watching television, and the following afternoon arrived without trouble at Chester races.

All the usual crowd were there, standing around, making the usual conversations. It was my first time on a racecourse since the dreary week in Paris, and it seemed to me when I walked in that the change in me must be clearly visible. But no one, of course, noticed the blistering sense of shame I felt at the sight of George Caspar outside the weighing room, or treated me any differently from usual. It was I alone who knew I didn't deserve the smiles and the welcome. I was a fraud. I shrank inside. I hadn't known I would feel so bad.

The trainer from Newmarket who had offered me a ride with his string was there, and repeated his offer.

'Sid, do come. Come this Friday, stay the night with us, and ride work on Saturday morning.'

There wasn't much, I reflected, that anyone could give me that I'd rather accept: and besides, Peter Rammileese and his merry men would have a job finding me there.

'Martin… Yes, I'd love to.'

'Great.' He seemed pleased. 'Come for evening stables, Friday night.'

He went on into the weighing room, and I wondered if he would have asked me if he'd known how I'd spent Guineas day. Bobby Unwin buttonholed me with inquisitive eyes. 'Where have you been?' he said. 'I didn't see you at the Guineas.'

'I didn't go.'

'I thought you'd be bound to, after all your interest in Tri-Nitro.'

'No.'

'I reckon you had the smell of something going on, there, Sid. All that interest in the Caspars, and about Gleaner and Zingaloo. Come clean, now, what do you know?'

'Nothing, Bobby.'

'I don't believe you.' He gave me a hard unforgiving stare and steered his beaky nose towards more fruitful copy in the shape of a top trainer enduring a losing streak. I would have trouble persuading him, I thought, if I should ever ask for his help again.

Rosemary Caspar, walking with a woman friend to whom she was chatting, almost bumped into me before either of us was aware of the other being there. The look in her eyes made Bobby Unwin seem loving.

'Go away,' she said violently. 'Why are you here?' The woman friend looked very surprised. I stepped out of the way without saying a word, which surprised her still further. Rosemary impatiently twitched her onwards, and I heard. her voice rising, 'But surely, Rosemary, that was Sid Halley…'

My face felt stiff. It's too bloody much, I thought. I couldn't have made their horse win if I'd stayed. / couldn't… but I might have. I would always think I might have, if I'd tried. If I hadn't been scared out of my mind.

'Hallo Sid,' a voice said at my side. 'Lovely day, isn't it?'

'Oh lovely.'

Philip Friarly smiled and watched Rosemary's retreating back. 'She's been snapping at everyone since that disaster last week. Poor Rosemary. Takes things so much to heart.'

'You can't blame her,' I said. 'She said it would happen, and no one believed her.'

'Did she tell you?' he said curiously.

I nodded. 'Ah,' he said, in understanding. 'Galling for you.'

I took a deep loosening breath and made myself concentrate on something different. 'That horse of yours, today,' I said. 'Are you just giving it a sharpener, running it here on the Flat?'

'Yes,' he said briefly. 'And if you ask me how it will run, I'll have to tell you that it depends on who's giving the orders, and who's taking them.'

'That's cynical.'

'Have you found out anything for me?'

'Not very much. It's why I came here.' I paused. 'Do you know the name and address of the person who formed your syndicates?'

'Not offhand,' he said. 'I didn't deal with him myself, do you see? The syndicates were already well advanced when I was asked to join. The horses had already been bought, and most of the shares were sold.'

'They used you,' I said. 'Used your name. A respectable front.'

He nodded unhappily. 'I'm afraid so.'

'Do you know Peter Rammileese?'

'Who?' He shook his head. 'Never heard of him.'

'He buys and sells horses,' I said. 'Lucas Wainwright thinks it was he who formed your syndicates, and he who is operating them, and he's bad news to the Jockey Club and barred from most racecourses.'

'Oh dear.'

He sounded distressed. 'If Lucas is looking into them… What do you think I should do, Sid?'

'From your own point of view,' I said. 'I think you should sell your shares, or dissolve the syndicates entirely, and get your name out of them as fast as possible.'

'All right, I will. And Sid… next time I'm tempted, I'll get you to check on the other people in the syndicate. The Security section are supposed to have done these, and look at them!'

'Who's riding your horse today?' I said.

'Larry Server.'

He waited for an opinion, but I didn't give it. Larry Server was middle ability, middle employed, rode mostly on the Flat and sometimes over hurdles, and was to my mind in the market for unlawful bargains.

'Who chooses the jockey?' I said. 'Larry Server doesn't ride all that often for your horse's trainer.'

'I don't know,' he said doubtfully. 'I leave all that to the trainer, of course.'

I made a small grimace.

'Don't you approve?' he said.

'If you like,' I said, 'I'll give you a list of jockeys for your jumpers that you can at least trust to be trying to win. Can't guarantee their ability, but you can't have everything.'

'Now who's a cynic?' He smiled, and said with patent and piercing regret, 'I wish you were still riding them, Sid.'

'Yeah.' I said it with a smile, but he saw the flicker I hadn't managed to keep out of my eyes.

With a compassion I definitely didn't want, he said, 'I'm so sorry.'

'It was great while it lasted,' I said lightly. 'That's all that matters.'

He shook his head, annoyed with himself for his clumsiness.

'Look,' I said, 'if you were glad I'm not still riding them I'd feel a whole lot worse.'

'We had some grand times, didn't we? Some exceptional days.'

'Yes, we did.'

There could be an understanding between an owner and a jockey, I thought, that was intensely intimate. In the small area where their lives touched, where the speed and the winning were all that mattered, there could be a privately shared joy, like a secret, that endured like cement. I hadn't felt it often, nor with many of the people I had ridden for, but with Philip Friarly, nearly always.

A man detached himself from another group near us, and came towards us with a smiling face.

'Philip. Sid. Nice to see you.' We made the polite noises back, but with genuine pleasure, as Sir Thomas Ullaston, the reigning Senior Steward, head of the Jockey Club, head, more or less, of the whole racing industry, was a sensible man and a fair and open-minded administrator. A little severe at times, some thought, but it wasn't a job for a soft man. In the short time since he'd been put in charge of things there had been some good new rules and a clearing out of injustices, and he was as decisive as his predecessor had been weak.

'How's it going, Sid?' he said. 'Caught any good crooks lately?'

'Not lately,' I said ruefully.

He smiled to Philip Friarly, 'Our Sid's putting the Security section's nose out of joint, did you know? I had Eddy Keith along in my office on Monday complaining that we give Sid too free a hand, and asking that we shouldn't let him operate on the racecourse.'

'Eddy Keith?' I said.

'Don't look so shocked, Sid,' Sir Thomas said teasingly. 'I told him that racing owed you a great deal, starting with the saving of Seabury racecourse itself and going right on from there, and that in no way would the Jockey Club ever interfere with you, unless you did something absolutely diabolical, which on past form I can't see you doing.'