I watched as Plantagenet King’s jockey slipped down off the horse. He was in deep conversation with Simon Paulson. I couldn’t tell if the trainer was reprimanding him for having allowed the others to get too far in front or congratulating him on not winning while giving every appearance of having tried to.

Many of the disgruntled losing punters had also come down to the unsaddling enclosure, and some were not at all happy.

‘You’re a disgrace, Shilstone,’ one of them shouted loudly across at him. ‘Call yourself a jockey? My old grandmother could have ridden better than that.’

I looked the jockey up in the racecard—Jimmy Shilstone. I’d not heard of him before, but he had no weight allowance shown next to his name in the card so he must have ridden at least seventy-five winners. But this race would not be one of them.

Perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt—or perhaps not.

‘Well done, Minty,’ I called out as Peter Minter hurried past me on his way to weigh in, carrying his saddle on his hip.

He stopped, turned and smiled broadly. ‘Thanks, Sid.’ He was genuinely pleased by the comment. Nice kid, I thought.

Jimmy Shilstone, meanwhile, was not so pleased by my presence.

‘Hard luck,’ I said, falling into step with him as he too made his way back towards the scales, head down.

‘Go away,’ he said, without even looking up.

‘Who is your agent?’ I asked.

This time he did glance up at me. ‘And who wants to know?’

‘Sid Halley.’

He flinched as if I’d poked him with an electric cattle prod. He may not have recognised my face, but he certainly knew my name.

‘Fuck off,’ he said, more forcibly this time, and he started walking faster.

I stepped in front of him, barring his way in through the weighing-room door. ‘Where is Anton Valance?’ I hissed. ‘Was it him who told you not to win that race, or was it Simon Paulson?’

There was a distinct look of panic in his eyes.

‘Don’t you care about your riding career?’

‘Get out of my way,’ he shouted, and the official at the door came to his aid, asking me brusquely to move aside.

‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ I shouted after Shilstone as he rushed into the sanctuary.

I looked in the racecard to see if Jimmy had any more rides today and, sure enough, he had also been declared to ride Simon Paulson’s other runner in the fifth race. I reckoned there was no chance of him emerging from the weighing room in the meantime, so I wandered off in search of other prey.