‘I assume so. Jimmy knows, all right. I certainly don’t have to tell him.’

‘Where does Jimmy live?’ I asked, slipping the question into the conversation in an innocent way.

‘Malton. Why?’

‘I thought I might go and see him.’

‘He won’t like that.’

‘I dare say,’ I said. ‘But do you have his address?’

‘I’m not so sure I should be giving you that.’

‘So would you rather I called my friends in the BHA Integrity Department to get it? Of course, I’ll probably have to tell them why I want it, and also why you won’t give it to me.’

Simon wasn’t to know that I’d already tried the same tactic once before, to try and get Anton Valance’s address, but without any success thanks to the damn data-protection regulations.

There was a long pause from the other end of the line. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t want to get Jimmy into any trouble.’

‘Trust me, Simon. He’s already in trouble—really deep trouble,’ I said. ‘And you are too. Can’t you see that I’m trying to help you both get out of this without you losing your licences?’

If only, I thought.

CHAPTER

21

CHICO AND I left for Malton at five thirty on Sunday morning, well before it was light, having cajoled Charles into looking after Rosie, albeit against his better judgement.

‘Can’t you take her with you?’ Charles had implored as he’d met me bleary-eyed at his front door, still wearing his pyjamas.

‘No,’ I’d said. ‘We can’t. We may not be back until very late.’

‘We? Who else are you taking?’

‘Chico. Chico Barnes. He’s in the car. He’s come to help me.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember him. He’s that curly-haired, crazy young man who doesn’t go to bed.’

It was true. On the last occasion that we’d all been together, Charles had provided a perfectly good room containing a comfy bed for Chico to use, but, instead, he had spent the whole time sleeping upright on a chair in Charles’s kitchen, on watch, as he had done again the previous night at my place.

And, for the second night, no one had come.

‘Perhaps they’ve come to their senses,’ Chico said to me in the car.

‘You really think so?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly. Nor do I.’

Simon Paulson had eventually given me Jimmy Shilstone’s address and also the gem of information that he rode out every morning for someone called Albert Frost, a Malton trainer.

I’d also asked Simon where Anton Valance lived.

‘I don’t know,’ he’d said. ‘Harrogate, maybe. I think he once mentioned to me something about going to the Turkish Baths there. Said he often needs to have a massage after his stressful mornings talking to, as he put it, “bloody trainers like you” on the telephone.’