I COLLARED JIMMY SHILSTONE as he was leaving the racecourse after the sixth race.

‘So what happened?’ I asked.

‘That bloody man Paulson didn’t put the fucking pads on the horse when he saddled it. Left them in the corner of the saddling box. Claims he forgot them.’

‘Pads?’

‘Nonslip pads. Two of them. Weigh a pound each. They’re designed to stop the saddle slipping—not that mine ever has. Because of the number cloth covering everything up, I didn’t notice they were missing until after the race.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody idiot.’

‘Was it an accident or did he do it on purpose?’ I asked.

Jimmy shrugged. ‘No idea. Either way, it cost him a fifteen-hundred-quid fine from the stewards, to say nothing of his share of the winner’s purse.’

But I was certain Simon Paulson had done it on purpose. A £1,500 fine from the stewards, plus the loss of the winning trainer’s share of the meagre purse, was probably a lot less than Valance would have added to his outstanding loan if the horse had actually won.

‘How about you?’ I asked. ‘Did you get fined as well?’

‘Not bloody likely,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Why would I? It wasn’t my fault. But I don’t get my share now either.’

‘Did you tell Paulson beforehand that you would be doing your best to win?’

‘Too bloody right I did. I told him that I was fed up riding good horses to lose. It makes me appear a fool. Like at Catterick last week.’

I remembered back to what had been shouted at him by a disgruntled racegoer when he’d purposely lost on Plantagenet King.

You’re a disgrace, Shilstone. Call yourself a jockey? My old grandmother could have ridden better than that.

Those sort of comments hurt, especially when he was more than capable of showing everyone how good a jockey he could be if he was really trying, as he had done today on Ricardian.

‘Keep the faith,’ I said. ‘And tell me what Valance says to you next.’

‘What’s the fucking point? I’ll end up in prison anyway.’

‘The point is, Jimmy,’ I said, catching hold of his shoulder as he tried to walk away, ‘I’m the only hope you’ve got, and you’d better believe it. I could report Valance to the BHA tomorrow for all I care about him. But I’m trying to save your career and your freedom, and don’t you forget it.’

‘Why?’

It was a good question.

Why was I so intent on keeping Jimmy out of prison and saving Marcus Capes’s jockey licence? Why didn’t I just do what Charles had said I should, and send everything I had found to Toby Jing in the BHA Integrity Department and be done with it?