As the time for the first race neared, the place began to fill up, even though that was a relative term.

Sedgefield in April was not like Cheltenham for the annual racing festival, which had taken place the previous month. Then, crowds in excess of seventy thousand had flocked to Prestbury Park to witness the very cream of British and Irish steeplechasers battle it out in a series of Class 1 championship races, some with purses well in excess of half a million pounds.

Here at Sedgefield today, there were seven scheduled races. Three of those were Class 4 and the other four Class 5, with the biggest prize of eight grand going to the winner of the fourth, while most of the others were worth less than six. And the attendance reflected the lesser standard of racing, with fewer than a thousand souls actually paying to get in.

In footballing terms, while Cheltenham and Aintree Racecourses were certainly in the Premier League, Sedgefield, as far as size of crowds go, was probably in the fourth tier or even lower. Not that the racing itself would be any less competitive, with plenty of runners here today vying for the moderate spoils.

Just before one o’clock, with still over an hour to go before the first race, I positioned myself close to the entrance to watch the arrivals, while Chico nonchalantly leaned against a wall some distance away to my left, so that it was not too obvious that we were there together.

The first persons of interest to appear were Noel Kline and Marcus Capes walking in side by side, deep in conversation.

Marcus saw me almost as soon as I spotted him, and there was a small but distinct falter in his step, but he quickly recovered. I gave him a small thumbs-up sign with my right hand and he fractionally nodded in my direction, before turning to his left towards the weighing room and the jockeys’ changing rooms.

Jimmy Shilstone was next to arrive, and he was far more concerned by my presence.

‘Is Ricardian a good bet?’ I asked him as he walked past me.

‘Go away,’ he said. ‘I can’t be seen talking to you.’

‘Why not? Is an ex-jockey giving a current one some advice so bad?’

‘You know why. I wish I’d never told you anything.’

‘Okay, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you alone, but only if you tell me to back Ricardian to win—and mean it.’

‘He’ll be doing his best as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Good lad,’ I said. ‘Does everyone else also think that?’

He gave me a look that included that slight touch of panic I had first seen at Catterick. So, no, everyone else didn’t think that.

‘Do your best to win,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure he was listening as he also hurried off towards the sanctuary of the weighing room.

And still I waited.