Malcolm, looking slightly dazed, put on the chefs coat and hat and pulled out his wallet. The chef looked delighted with the result and went back to slicing his turkeys in temporary shirtsleeves. Malcolm and the catering director left through the bar's rear door and set off together through the racecourse buildings to go outside to the area where the caterers' vans were parked. I waited quite a long anxious time in the bar, but eventually the catering director returned, carrying the white disguise, which he restored to its owner.

"Your father got off safely," he assured me. "He didn't see anyone he knew. What was it all about? Not really an elopement, was it?"

"He wanted to avoid being assassinated by his disapproving children."

The caterer smiled, of course not believing it. I asked where he would like the fizz sent and he took out a business card, writing his private address on the back.

"Your father lunched with the Directors, didn't he?" he said. "I thought I saw him up there." His voice implied that doing favours for people who lunched with the Directors was doubly vouched for, like backing up a cheque with a credit card, and I did my best to reinforce further his perception of virtue.

"He's just bought a half share in an Arc de Triomphe runner," I said. "We're going over for the race."

"Lucky you," he said, giving me his card. He frowned suddenly, trying to remember. "Didn't Rosemary tell me something about your father's present wife being pointlessly murdered some weeks ago? His late wife, I suppose I should say. Dreadful for him, dreadful."

"Yes," I said. "Well… some people connected with her turned up here today unexpectedly, and he wanted to escape meeting them."

"Ah," he said with satisfied understanding. "In that case, I'm glad to have been of help." He chuckled. "They didn't really look like elopers."

He shook my hand and went away, and with a couple of deep breaths I left the Members' bar and walked back to the weighing-room to pick up my gear. There was still one more race to be run but it already felt like a long afternoon.

George and Jo were there when I came out carrying saddle, helmet, whip and holdall, saying they'd thought they'd catch me before I left.

"We've decided to run Young Higgins again two weeks tomorrow at Kempton," Jo said. "You'll be free for that, won't you?" "Yes, indeed."

"And Park Railings, don't forget, at Cheltenham next Thursday."

"Any time, any Place," I said, and they laughed, conspirators in addiction.

It occurred to me as they walked away, looking back and waving, that perhaps I'd be in Singapore, Australia or Timbuktu next week or the week after; life was uncertain, and that was its seduction.

I saw none of the family on my way to the exit gate, and none between there and my car. With a frank sigh of relief, I stowed my gear in the boot and without much hurry set off towards Epsom, a detour of barely ten miles, thinking I might as well pick up my mail and listen to messages.

The telephone answering machine did have a faculty for listening to messages from afar, but it had never worked well, and I'd been too lazy to replace the remote controller which, no doubt, needed new batteries anyway.

With equally random thoughts I drove in attentively onwards, and it wasn't until I'd gone a fair distance that I realised that every time I glanced in the rear-view mirror I could see the same car two or three cars back. Some cars passed me: it never did, nor closed a gap to catch up.

I sat up, figuratively and literally, and thought, "What do you know?" and felt my heart beat as at the starting gate.

What I didn't know was whose car it was. It looked much like the hired one I was driving, a middle-rank four-door in under washed cream; ordinary, inconspicuous, no threat to Formula One.

Perhaps, I thought sensibly, the driver was merely going to Epsom, at my own pace, so at the next traffic lights I turned left into unknown residential territory, and kept on turning left at each crossroads thereafter, reasoning that in the end I would complete the circle and end up facing where I wanted to go. I didn't hurry nor continually look in the rear-view mirror, but when I was back again on a road – a different one – with signposts to Epsom, the similar car was still somewhere on my tail, glimpsed tucked in behind a van.

If he had only a minimal sense of direction, I thought, he would realise what I had done and guess I now knew he was following. On the other hand, the back roads between Sandown Park and Epsom were a maze, like most Surrey roads, and he might possibly not have noticed, or thought I was lost, or…

Catching at straws, I thought. Face facts. I knew he was there and he knew I knew and what should I do next?

We were already on the outskirts of Epsom and almost automatically I threaded my way round corners, going towards my flat. I had no reason not to, I thought. I wasn't leading my follower to Malcolm, if that was what he had in mind. I also wanted to find out who he was, and thought I might outsmart him through knowing some ingenious short cuts round about where I lived.

Many of the houses in that area, having been built in the thirties without garages, had cars parked permanently on both sides of the streets. Only purpose-built places, like my block of flats, had adequate parking, except for two or three larger houses converted to flats which had cars where once there had been lawns.

I drove on past my home down the narrow roadway and twirled fast into the driveway of one of the large houses opposite. That particular house had a narrow exit drive also into the next tree- lined avenue: I drove straight through fast, turned quickly, raced round two more corners and returned to my own road to come up behind the car which had been following me.

He was there, stopped, awkwardly half-parked in too small a space with his nose to the kerb, rear sticking out, brake lights still shining: indecision showing all over the place. I drew to a halt right behind him, blocking his retreat, put on my brakes, climbed out, took three or four swift strides and opened the door on the driver's side.

There was a stark moment of silence.

Then I said, "Well, well, well," and after that I nodded up towards my flat and said, "Come on in," and after that I said, "If I'd known you were coming, I'd have baked a cake."

Debs giggled. Ferdinand, who had been driving, looked sheepish. Serena, unrepentant, said, "Is Daddy here?"

They came up to my flat where they could see pretty clearly that no, Daddy wasn't. Ferdinand looked down from the sitting-room window to where his car was now parked beside mine in neat privacy, and then up at the backs of houses opposite over a nearby fence.

"Not much of a view," he said disparagingly.

"I'm not here much."

"You knew I was following you, didn't you?"

"Yes," I said. "Like a drink?"

"Well… scotch?"

I nodded and poured him some from a bottle in the cupboard.

"No ice," he said, taking the glass. "After that drive, I'll take it neat."

"I didn't go fast," I said, surprised.

"Your idea of fast and mine round those goddam twisty roads are about ten miles an hour different."

The two girls were poking about in the kitchen and bedrooms and I could hear someone, Serena no doubt, opening doors and drawers in a search for residues of Malcolm.

Ferdinand shrugged, seeing my unconcern. "He hasn't been here at all, has he?" he said.

"Not for three years."

"Where is he?"

I didn't answer.

"We'll have to torture you into telling," said Ferdinand.

It was a frivolous threat we'd used often in our childhood for anything from "Where are the corn flakes to "What is the time" and Ferdinand himself looked surprised that it had surfaced.

"Mm," I said. "As in the tool shed?"