‘I can only contact him through his agent.’

‘Then call his agent right now to confirm he’s here.’

Clive reached for his phone and dialled, but I could hear it ringing and ringing with no answer. He tried again but with the same result.

‘Hopeless,’ Clive said. ‘He’s not picking up.’

‘Who is it?’ I asked.

‘Someone called Anton Valance.’

CHAPTER

12

NEEDLESS TO SAY, Timothy McKeen never did turn up at Catterick to ride Devil’s Own in the third race.

Clive Beale was apoplectic with rage and, when he finally got through to the agent, he was told just that these unfortunate errors very occasionally happen—no apology, no explanation—and that did nothing to assuage his anger.

Fortunately for Clive, I had forewarned him early enough for him to have time to find an alternative rider, and to get the stewards’ permission for the change as it was due to circumstances beyond the trainer’s control, namely the non-arrival of his jockey at the racecourse. This didn’t mean, however, that Clive would get away scot-free. He would still be subject to a fine from the Authority, as it remained his official responsibility to ensure that the declared rider was present.

In the race itself, to make matters even worse, a fast-finishing Devil’s Own was beaten a short head after the replacement jockey mistimed his run for the line, overtaking the eventual winner just a fraction of a second after having passed the winning post.

It was all doom and gloom for the owner’s son and his well-oiled army mates in the unsaddling enclosure, and Clive could hardly contain himself. He gave the unfortunate jockey a right royal roasting with everyone around able to hear. Certainly, no one anywhere near was left in any doubt that Clive Beale had desperately wanted, and had fully expected, his horse to win.

‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ he shouted at the poor lad as he struggled to remove his saddle from the sweating horse. ‘You left it far too late. You’re a stupid boy.’

At least I was certain that this particular loss was as a result of incompetence rather than from any malicious intent. No jockey, of whatever skill level, would have been able to purposely engineer a defeat by such a small margin. And on this occasion, the majority of the crowd seemed quite pleased with the outcome, as it had been the favourite that had undeservedly hung on to win by a whisker.

Eventually the wretched jockey finally managed to undo the girths, pulled his saddle down from the horse’s back and scuttled off towards the refuge of the weighing room with the trainer’s sharp reprimands still ringing in his ears.

I intercepted Clive as he made his way back towards the owners and trainers’ hospitality area together with the disappointed owner’s son and his two army chums.

‘Bad luck,’ I said to them all.