Clive shook his head. ‘Never was coming. Lives in Gibraltar. Says it’s because it’s warmer, but I think it’s probably for tax reasons. He owns a kitchen appliance repair company. Made an absolute fortune and now wants to sell up, and there’s no capital gains tax in Gib.’ He smiled. ‘Good news for me, though, because then he’ll probably buy more horses.’

I looked in the racecard. The owner of Devil’s Own was listed as CWMR Ltd.

‘What is CWMR?’ I asked. ‘It sounds Welsh.’

‘That’s his company,’ Clive said, laughing. ‘And it’s not Welsh. CWMR stands for Coventry Washing Machine Repair.’ He laughed again. ‘They even came and fixed my yard washing machine last year, the industrial one I use to wash the horses’ rugs. Charged me, mind.’

Of course, I thought. You don’t make an absolute fortune by giving things away.

I looked again in the racecard. The jockey of Devil’s Own was listed as Timothy McKeen.

‘Does Timothy McKeen ride for you a lot?’ I asked.

‘Not really, but he has done so a couple of times. He’s not bad.’

‘Where’s he based?’

‘Sheffield, I think. Not sure. He’s ridden one or two of mine when I’ve ventured up north and my regular jocks are otherwise engaged elsewhere. Dave Jenner rides most of mine, that’s if he’s free, but he’s down at Fontwell this afternoon.’

‘So how did you book McKeen?’ I asked.

‘Why? Not thinking of becoming a jockeys’ agent, are you?’

‘No chance,’ I said. ‘I was just wondering. The system’s changed so much since I was riding.’

‘Certainly has. Increasingly the jocks book you rather than the other way round. Or rather their agents do. They call me all the time, first really early in the day to check if I will be declaring, and then again later to book their riders.’

‘So who called you to book McKeen?’

‘As I said, his agent.’

‘Yes, but who is that?’ I asked insistently. Maybe a tad too insistently.

Clive looked at me closely across the table. ‘What is this, Sid, the Spanish Inquisition?’

I was suddenly worried that Clive, too, had been corrupted, and there was only one way to find out.

‘Are you paying a trainers’ premium to McKeen’s agent for his ride today?’

‘No, I’m bloody not. I was asked for one but I refused point-blank.’

‘Was that wise?’

He looked slightly worried. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Has McKeen any other rides here today?’

We both looked through the racecard. Devil’s Own was his sole declared ride of the day.

‘Is he here yet?’ I asked.

‘I was assured that he’d be here in good time.’

‘Who assured you of that? His agent? The very same man to whom you refused point-blank to pay a trainers’ premium? I’d check if I were you. Do you have McKeen’s number?’