Unfortunately, the covers had done their job in saving the meeting from the frost, and so my mother drove the three of us to Newbury in her battered old blue Ford, my stepfather sitting next to her in the front while I was in the back behind her, as I had been so often before on the way to and from the races.

Going racing had been such a huge part of my young life that at one time, my knowledge of British geography had been based solely on the locations of the racetracks. By the time I learned to drive when I was seventeen, I had no idea where the big cities might be, but I could unerringly find my way to such places as Market Rasen, Plumpton or Fakenham, and I also knew the best shortcuts to beat the race-day traffic.

Newbury is the most local course to Lambourn, being just fifteen miles away, and is thought of as "home" for most of the village's trainers, who all have as many runners here as possible, not least because of the low transport costs.

By the time my mother pulled into the trainers' parking lot it was nearly full, and I noticed with dismay how far I was going to have to walk to get into the racetrack. I was still suffering from excess fluid in the tissues of my leg, and I had promised myself to take things a little easier for a while. So much for my good intentions.

"Hello, Josephine," called a voice as we stepped out of the car. Ewen Yorke was standing just in front of us, struggling into his sheepskin overcoat.

"Oh, hello, Ewen," replied my mother without warmth.

"Hiya, Tom," Julie Yorke called as she climbed out of their top-of-the-range, brand-new white BMW, a fact not lost on my mother, who positively fumed. Now I realized why she had suddenly become so keen on upgrading her old Ford.

For once, Julie was accompanying Ewen to the races, and she was dressed in a thin figure-hugging silk dress with a matching, but equally thin, print-patterned topcoat. Rather inappropriate, I thought, for a cold and dank February afternoon, but it clearly warmed the hearts of several male admirers who walked by with smiles on their faces and sparkles in their eyes.

"Hi, Julie," I replied with a small wave that brought the same response of recognition from Ewen.

My mother looked across the car at me disapprovingly. I was sure that she would be desperate to discover how it was that I knew them, and be eager for me to enlighten her. But I decided not to. I'd not mentioned to her where I had gone to dinner on Thursday night. I had simply let her assume, incorrectly, that I had gone down to one of the village pubs. She obviously hadn't suffered under my Sandhurst color sergeant, or she would have known never to assume anything but always to check.

We hung back, putting on our own coats and hats, as the Yorkes made their way across the grass to the entrance. We watched them go.

"If Scientific is not able to win today," my mother said icily, "I just hope it's not bloody Newark Hall. I can't stand that man."

I looked around quickly to see if anyone had heard her comment.

"If I were you," I said, forcefully but quietly, "I'd keep my voice down. This parking lot is also used by the stewards."

We made it unchallenged into the racetrack, my mother obtaining a member's club ticket for me at the gate, just as she always had. But now I was no longer the little boy in a cap that the gateman had let through with a smile, although I felt the same excitement.

However, my excitement today was combined with acute nervousness.

Had I done enough to make Scientific's reins part? Would the horse and rider be all right? Would I be found out by Jack?

The Game Spirit Steeplechase was the second race on the card, and so anxious was I that I didn't take the slightest notice of the first. Instead, I stood nervously at the entrance to the pre-parade ring, waiting for the horses to be led in by the stable lads.

To say that I was relieved when Scientific came into the ring was an understatement. I started breathing again. As the horse was walked around and around, I looked closely at his bridle, and it certainly appeared to be the same one that I had tampered with on the previous afternoon.

So far, so good.

I wandered over to the saddling stalls and leaned on a white wooden rail, waiting for Scientific to be brought over by the stable lad, who, I noticed, was Declan, the same young man that I had spoken to in the Kauri Stables tack room.

Presently my mother and stepfather arrived, then Jack appeared, trotting into the saddling stall with the jockey's minuscule saddle under his arm.

Declan stood in front of the horse, restraining its head using the reins on both sides of the bit. I was again holding my breath. Would he notice the sabotage?

My mother and Jack busied themselves, one on each side of the animal, applying under-saddle pad, weight cloth, number cloth and then the saddle to its back, pulling the girths tight around its belly. Next, Jack threw a heavy red, black and gold horse rug over the whole lot to keep the horse warm against the February chill. With a slap on his neck from Jack, Scientific was sent to the parade ring for inspection by the betting public.

Why, I wondered, did the blackmailer want Scientific to lose?

Was it because he wanted another specific horse to win?

Probably not, I thought.

Before the onset of Internet gambling, the only people who could really gain financially from knowing a horse would definitely lose a race were the bookmakers, who could then offer much better odds on it and rake in the bets, safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't have to pay out. However, nowadays anyone could act as a bookmaker by "laying" the horse on the Internet, effectively betting that it would lose. It didn't matter which other horse won, as long as it wasn't the surefire loser.

So anyone could gain by knowing that Scientific would not win this race. If only I had access to see who was "laying" the horse on the Net. But there would be no chance of that, even if I had been prepared to tell the authorities why I needed it.

I watched absentmindedly as the twelve horses in the race were walked around and around. I had never been a gambler myself and had never really understood the passion and concentration with which some punters would study the runners in the parade ring before making their bets. I had been told over and over again by my mother that how well a horse looks in the paddock can be such a good indicator of how fast it will run on the course, but I personally couldn't see it.

A racetrack official rang a handbell, and I watched with interest as Declan turned Scientific inwards, waiting for my mother and stepfather to walk over with the horse's owner and jockey. My mother made great play in removing the rug and checking the girths but without going near the bridle or the reins. Declan stood impassively, holding the horse's head as my mother tossed the lightweight rider up onto his equally slight saddle.

The jockey placed his feet in the stirrup irons and then gathered the reins, making a knot with the ends to ensure that they didn't separate. After another brief circuit of the ring, the horses moved down the horse walk towards the racetrack, and the crowd moved as if one, towards the grandstand, in search of a good viewing position. I was amongst them.

"Hello, Tom," said a voice from behind my shoulder.

I turned around. "Oh, hello." I kissed Isabella on the cheek. Jackson was with her, and they had the Garraways in tow.

"Fancy a drink?" Jackson said, clapping me on the shoulder.

A drink sounded just the thing to calm my nerves.

"Later," I said. "I want to watch this race."

"So do we," said Jackson with his booming laugh. "Come on up to our box and we can do both."

I had been trying to spot my mother in the throng of people so I could watch the race with her. I had one last look around, but I couldn't see her or my stepfather anywhere. It was probably just as well, I thought, as together we would have been a pair of nervous wrecks.