But it was the television images of Marcus Capes, as he was led in to the winner’s enclosure after Meeru’s victory, that would long remain in my memory.

The poor boy clearly didn’t know whether to be ecstatically happy or downright miserable, and his facial expression seemed to flip-flop between the two extremes. But, in both cases, there were deep worry lines across his forehead, and with good reason. He had defied his blackmailer and was now terrified of the consequences.

Now we just had to wait for the fallout to begin.

At three o’clock, Chico went upstairs to lie on a bed and get some proper sleep, while I remotely switched the tracker tag back on to see where Valance had got to.

He was back at home—or, at least, his overcoat was.

I switched it off again.

He would know by now that Meeru had won, and I tried to imagine what his reaction would be. Disbelief probably, that young Marcus Capes could have ever defied him, and anger that he had. Perhaps, by now, he had watched a replay of the race and seen what a textbook ride the jockey had given the horse, without a single hint that he wasn’t in the race to win it.

I smiled at the thought, but I was wary too, and not just for Marcus but for me as well. Would Valance see this reversal as my doing? Sticking my nose into other aspects of his villainy, rather than just into the death of Gary Bremner?

I had purposely not mentioned any of the names Simon Paulson, Jimmy Shilstone, or Marcus Capes to Valance during our brief sojourn in the steam room. I had not wanted to alert him to the fact that I knew how he had corrupted them for fear of retaliation against them, or against me.

But if I’d been him, I would have thought it highly suspicious that, on the very next day after I had warned him not to come near my house or my family, one of his other little projects had backfired. Indeed, I had been quite surprised that he had gone ahead with the fix so soon after the Turkish Baths episode.

He must have thought he was safe.

Did he still?

I called Clive Beale.

‘Hi, Sid,’ he said, clearly on a hands-free system. ‘I’m just leaving Ludlow. How can I help?’

‘Did you speak to Timothy McKeen about last Tuesday?’

‘You bet your life I did. Got hold of him on Wednesday morning, the little shit.’

‘What reason did he give for not turning up?’

‘Said his car broke down on the way to Catterick and he couldn’t call me because his phone was out of battery.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Not really, but what else could I do? I told him he’d never ride for me again.’

‘Did you hear anything else about it?’