‘Bloody hell,’ Clive said next to me as we saw the horse go down in a flurry of legs, both equine and human. ‘That jockey is either bent, or he’s a fucking idiot.’

‘So now do you believe me?’ I asked him, echoing the words Gary Bremner had said to me the previous Saturday.

Over a cup of tea, Clive pleaded with me to do something.

‘Like what?’ I asked.

‘We must go to the authorities.’

Both Simon Paulson’s horses had started as favourites, and neither of them had won. There was nothing particularly unusual in that. Statistically, only about a third of the favourites in the betting actually win. Bookmakers are so adept at setting their prices that even if you bet only on every odds-on favourite, you would still lose.

As far as I could tell, the racecourse stewards at Catterick had not deemed it necessary to hold an enquiry into the running of either of the two Paulson horses, presumably because they hadn’t believed that anything was wrong. It was only because I’d already had my suspicions aroused that I felt sure that both horses had not won on purpose. But why would anyone want not to win on purpose?

Anyone can back the winner—indeed, everyone can back every winner. You simply bet on every horse running in a race. Then you would be sure to back the winner.

However, you would still lose money, as the sum of your stakes lost on the losers would always be greater than your winnings from the victor—bad idea.

But if you knew for certain that the favourite wasn’t going to win, especially a short-priced favourite, you could just back all the others and guarantee a positive return—good idea.

And that is what I believed had happened in both those races. It was a fraud on the betting public … but proving it would be another matter altogether.

Going to the authorities now, without proof, would surely have no effect other than to simply drive Anton Valance, or whoever, underground until they reappeared directing the running of the horses of some other poor trainer. Perhaps I had already done that by so publicly announcing I was after him, and maybe it had simply been too late to change today’s arrangements.

‘Let me continue digging for a bit first,’ I said to Clive. ‘To get some more concrete evidence.’ As long as I wasn’t digging my own grave, I thought.

‘Okay, but keep me informed,’ he insisted. ‘I must get going. Clare and I are meant to be out for dinner tonight, and I should have left here hours ago.’