Maybe enough dirt would stick on Valance and Asquith to get them banned from the sport, but for how long? Or maybe it wouldn’t even come to that. And Jimmy, Marcus and Simon would meanwhile take the fall for their deviousness, to say nothing of what had already happened to poor Gary Bremner.

And then Valance and Asquith would be free to start all over again, terrorising and blackmailing new jockeys and different trainers to do their dirty work.

‘Because I care,’ I said.

And I did care. I’d been there once myself, orphaned at sixteen, suddenly alone in a grown-up world, trying my best to make an impression in horse racing. Maybe I’d just been lucky, back then, that I’d not come to the attention of people like Valance and Asquith.

But what was my aim now?

I suppose I had some crazy notion that I could broker a deal, to de-escalate the situation and to muster sufficient evidence against Valance and Asquith such that they couldn’t use what they had against Marcus and Jimmy, or even continue their little schemes. But first I needed to convince them that I had enough of my own intercontinental ballistic missiles aimed at them, such that they daren’t ever fire theirs, for fear of retaliation and mutual annihilation.

It was the whole basis of peace by deterrence, but would it work better here than it had in the Falkland Islands?

And did I yet have enough evidence?

Maybe I had against Anton Valance, with the video that Marcus had made, but so far I had precious little, or even nothing, on Harry Asquith other than anecdotal suspicion, and the slight tightening of the skin on his face, which no one else but me had seen.

I reckoned I still needed to do a little more digging before negotiations could begin.

Chico and I set off south after the last race.

I had tried to catch up again with Harry Asquith, but he had not emerged without both his daughter and grandson in tow, and only then to move swiftly from the owners and trainers’ hospitality suite to the car park, and then away at speed.

As Chico and I were passing Darlington on the motorway, I received a call from Marcus Capes. I answered on the hands-free system.

‘Yes, Marcus. How can I help?’

‘Can you come and see me?’

‘When?’

‘Right now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I have another recording of Mr Valance. He called me just now, after I got back from Sedgefield, to tell me I was a very lucky boy that Jahaz Bar was brought down at the last. Otherwise I’d have been in real trouble. I managed to record it. So come and get it.’

I looked across at Chico and he shrugged his shoulders, as if he was happy to do so.

‘Okay,’ I said to Marcus. ‘We’ll be there in about forty minutes.’