�Whatever happens, don�t be late. Our first guests will be arriving at seven, and you have to be here, dressed and ready. And please try to remain sober.�

My wife of twenty-five years, Georgina, was leaning over the banister at the top of the stairs.

I looked up at her. �Yes, dear.�

Whose crazy idea had it been for us to hold a party on Derby Day?

Mine probably, but nearly a year ago, when we�d booked the marquee and the caterers, I hadn�t been expecting to own the favourite for the race. And today was our actual silver wedding anniversary, so it had been an obvious choice.

I say �own� the favourite for the Derby but that wouldn�t be entirely true. I possessed just one twelfth of the horse in my own name, but I managed the whole animal as the syndicate organiser.

�I need the place cards,� Georgina said. �Have you done them?�

�They�re on my desk,� I said.

�Can you get them for me?�

�But I have to go. The traffic is always horrendous around Epsom for the Derby.�

�A couple of minutes won�t make any difference.�

I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway � twenty past nine.

Did she not realize how important this race was for me? I had hardly slept a wink all night because of my nervousness, and I�d been up since five. All I wanted to do was to get going, to ensure I was at the racecourse in good time.

Calm down, I told myself. It�s just another race.

Except it wasn�t just another race. This was the Epsom Derby, the preeminent flat race in the U.K., if not in the whole of Europe.

I walked into the kitchen, on the way to my office at the back of the house. Our daughter, Amanda, was sitting at the kitchen table in a dressing gown, eating toast and typing into her mobile.

�So are you looking forward to this evening?� I asked jovially.

�No,� she replied blandly, without looking up. �Darren says it�s stupid to have a combined party. I should be having my own birthday party, and not having to share it with James and all your dreary old friends.�

The party was to be a celebration not only for Georgina and me, but also to mark our son, James�s, twenty-first, and Amanda�s nineteenth birthdays. James�s birthday had been two days previously, and Amanda�s was next Friday.

�But you were really keen on the plan to hold a joint party. Indeed, if I remember correctly, it was your idea in the first place.�

�Well, I�m not keen anymore,� Amanda said, still not looking up from the screen. �Darren says we would have much more fun, like, down at the pub, wearing jeans and T-shirts than having to dress up here in fancy suits and bow ties.�

Darren was an unemployed twenty-six-year-old college dropout who had been Amanda�s boyfriend for the past eight months, and as far as Georgina and I were concerned, he was not a suitable match for our daughter. In fact, he was totally unsuitable.

Not only was he eight years older than Amanda, but he had also been convicted for joyriding in a stolen car the previous summer in the nearby town of Didcot. And we were also extremely worried about the way he tried to control our daughter�s life. He demanded that she tell him where she was at any given time, and he became angry if she didn�t or if she went out anywhere without him. He even stipulated what she could wear. And he had done his best to cut her off from all her other friends, especially the male ones.

She had planned to go travelling during her gap year between school and university, but Darren had put paid to that too, telling her she would be better off getting a job and staying here. So, instead of backpacking around Australia with a girlfriend for three months at the beginning of the year, she�d spent the time working as a checkout girl in the local Tesco supermarket, something she still did.

�Darren says I should have had a party last year for my eighteenth birthday, not this year for my nineteenth.�

I didn�t actually care one iota what Darren said, but decided not to say so. I wasn�t in the mood for another argument with her � not here, not today.

�If you remember,� I said calmly, keeping a tight hold on my temper, �we all decided that it wasn�t sensible to have an eighteenth birthday party right in the middle of your A levels, and that we would do it this year instead as a joint celebration.�

�Darren says it�s just because you want to do it on the cheap.�

�Darren doesn�t know what he�s talking about. Now, please be helpful to your mother today. She has lots to do to get ready for this evening.�

Amanda finally looked up from her phone.

�Where are you going all dressed up?�

I was wearing morning dress and carrying a top hat.

�To the Derby. Potassium is running.�

�Will he win?�

�I hope so.�

God, I hoped so.

I went through into my office and picked up the place cards from my desk � one hundred and forty of them in four stacks, one for each of the four long tables set up in the marquee. Amanda and James had a table each for their friends, while Georgina and I had one apiece for ours. I carried the cards back through the kitchen, where Amanda was still sitting at the table.

�Remember what I said about helping your mother,� I said to her.

She looked up at me and didn�t answer.

�Please,� I said imploringly. �Mum�s not very happy about me being out all day at the races, and you know how stressed she can get.�

�Okay,� Amanda said reluctantly.

�Right. I must get going or I�ll be late.�

I went back into the hallway and put the place cards on the hall table.

�The cards are all in the right order,� I called up to Georgina. �I�ll see you later.�

�What time is the race?� she asked, coming back onto the landing from our bedroom.

�Twenty past three.�

She drew her breath in through clenched teeth. �That�s cutting it a bit fine.�

�We�re actually lucky,� I said. �It�s usually run at four thirty, but it�s been brought forward so as not to clash with the football at Wembley.�

�Well, don�t be late. Leave as soon as the Derby is over.�

�I can�t just leave if Potassium wins.�

Georgina waved a dismissive hand, which I took to mean she rather hoped he wouldn�t win.

�It would pay for the party,� I said.

And some, I thought.

The Epsom Derby might not be the most valuable horse race in Europe, but the purse was still �1.5 million, with �850,650 of that going to the winning connections. To say nothing of the future value of the horse as the Derby winner. Potential stud fees could easily run into the tens of millions.

The way things had been going in recent months, with increased inflation, higher wage costs, and people being more careful about buying racehorses, my personal finances, and those of the syndicate company, could really do with the boost. A year ago, when we�d planned the party and booked the marquee plus the caterers, my business had been buoyant. No expense had been spared. Now I was worried that we couldn�t afford it.

Too late to think of that now, I told myself. We�re committed.

My moment of isolated calm quickly evaporated as I was swamped by other syndicate members, all of them cheering loudly and slapping me on the back.

�We won! We won!� shouted the man who had previously grabbed me.

His name was Nick Spencer, a millionaire London property lawyer who owned many shares of Victrix horses. He was usually a quiet and measured man, but now he was literally jumping up and down with excitement.

�Indeed we did,� I replied quietly, still hardly daring to believe it.

All my racing life, my burning ambition had been to win an Epsom Derby, and now it had finally happened. Yet strangely, at this moment of triumph, I was totally relaxed, subdued even. I realised that my overriding emotion was one of relief rather than elation. Maybe that would come later.

�Come on, Chester,� said Nick, seizing my left arm and dragging him with me. �Winner�s circle, here we come!�

Unlike at many British racecourses, such as Ascot, York, Cheltenham, and Aintree, where the unsaddling enclosures for the first to fourth placed horses are positioned within the parade rings, Epsom had a space reserved exclusively for the race winner � a railed circle situated right in front of the Queen Elizabeth II grandstand.

As Nick and I moved through the throng, I was accosted by the same BBC radio journalist as had met me at the racecourse entrance earlier, again with his live microphone at the ready.

�So, Chester Newton, owner of Potassium, do you think he was a lucky winner?� he asked, thrusting his microphone in my direction.

�In what way?� I replied.

�The TV images clearly show that in just another stride Potassium would have only been third. So don�t you think he was lucky to win?�

I stopped walking and looked straight at him.

�But the race distance wasn�t another stride long,� I said in a strong but measured tone, resisting the urge to get angry about such a ridiculous question. �The winner of the Derby, as in every other race, is the horse that gets from the starting stalls to the finish line in the shortest time, and today, here, that horse was Potassium. So he�s a worthy winner. There was no luck involved. The race was run exactly as we had planned it, right down to that last winning stride. It is a famous victory for Potassium, and also for Victrix Racing.�

The reporter seemed quite taken aback by the forcefulness of my reply, and I was a bit surprised by it too, but I was determined not to allow Potassium to be labelled as a �lucky winner� when he�d won the race fair and square. But I suppose it was better than being labelled as an �unlucky loser.�

By the time I�d elbowed my way through the crowd to the winner�s circle, Nick Spencer and all the other Potassium syndicate members were already in there, many with their partners, such that there was hardly room for the horse.

Owen Reynolds had a grin on his face as big as that of the Cheshire Cat as he led the winner in. Why wouldn�t he? Never mind anything else, he�d just won twenty-five thousand pounds from his bet.

The jockey, Jimmy Ketch, raised his arms above his head in a victory salute that sent the other syndicate members into greater raptures.

I, meanwhile, leaned quietly on the white rail, taking in the ebullient scene. Inside me was forming a warm glow of satisfaction, and I could feel that a smile was slowly spreading across my face.

Surely my business would be safe after this?

If only.

The traffic on the M25 wasn�t too bad, but still I didn�t get home until gone half past six, and Georgina wasn�t happy as she met me in the hallway, already dressed and ready.

�Don�t worry,� I assured her. �I�ll be all set by seven.� I ran up the stairs. �Are the kids back yet?�

�Yes, but they�re all the worse for wear, especially that bloody Darren. He can hardly stand up.� She wasn�t amused.

�Has he got a suit?� I called, removing my shirt and tie on the landing.

�Charity-shop purchase by the look of it. But whether he can dress himself in it is anyone�s guess.�

I was laughing as I dived into the shower.

Did I care?

Not really. Because I�d just won the Derby.

The first police car didn�t arrive until thirty minutes after my phone call, by which time I was almost climbing the walls, or I would have been if the marquee had had walls.

James had gone out to the driveway to meet it, and in due course he brought two uniformed officers in high-visibility yellow jackets around the house to the marquee. I went to greet them on the dance floor.

�My name is Chester Newton,� I said. �I was the person who called the police. It�s my daughter who has gone missing.�

The two officers looked at everyone still sitting at the tables in their smart attire.

�This is her birthday party,� I said. �Along with a silver wedding anniversary celebration for my wife and me.�

One of the two took a notebook out of his jacket pocket and made some notes.

�Your daughter�s full name?� he asked.

�Amanda Rose Newton.�

He wrote it down.

�Date of birth?�

I gave it to him, and he wrote that down too.

�Is this house her home address?�

�Yes.�

�When did you notice that she was missing?�

�At about ten to ten, when she couldn�t be found for the speeches. But the last photograph we have found of her this evening was taken at three minutes past nine. No one has seen her since.�

�At 21.03?�

�Yes.�

He wrote it down and also looked at his own watch.

�Did she leave with anyone?�

�No one from the party,� I said. �Everyone else is accounted for.�

�Can you give me a description of what she was wearing?�

I showed him a photo that one of her friends had taken of Amanda in her white dress and silk scarf. The dress was short and strapless, which I thought was obviously not appropriate attire to run away in, not that the policeman made any such comment.

�Did she have access to any vehicles?�

�She has her own car, a battered old blue Ford Fiesta, but it�s still in the driveway. I checked. And no other cars are missing.�

�And you have searched the house?�

�Yes. Thoroughly. And the garden. There�s no sign of her. But we did find her scarf. It was on the ground outside the ladies� loo.�

I held it out to him, but he didn�t take it. Instead, he made some more notes, and I was becoming frustrated by his lack of urgency or action.

�Shouldn�t you be organising a search of the local area,� I said. �Or maybe getting a helicopter up to look for her?�

He glanced up at me from his notebook.

�Your daughter has been missing for less than two hours. Do you have any idea how many people are reported to the police as missing?�

I shook my head.

�In this country alone, a person is reported missing every ninety seconds. That�s a hundred and seventy thousand missing persons every year.�

I stared at him in disbelief.

�We can hardly send a helicopter up for all of them, now can we?� he said. �Now, does your daughter have any medical issues?�

�In what way?�

�Does she suffer from any form of mental illness? Or any other condition for which she takes regular medication?�

�No.�

�What is the name of her doctor?�

�Dr Duncan Matthews,� I said. �He�s here tonight as one of my guests.�

I turned around and searched for him. I knew that he was sitting at Georgina�s table, and I found him quickly. �Duncan,� I called, �could you please come over here for a moment?�

He came and joined the policemen and me.

�Good evening, sir,� said one policeman. �I understand that you are Miss Amanda Newton�s doctor. Can you tell me if she takes any regular medication, for example, for any adverse psychiatric condition?�

�She does not have an adverse psychiatric condition,� Duncan said slowly and clearly. �The only regular medication she takes is the contraceptive pill, which I have been prescribing to her for about three years. At her own request.�

That was news to me, but I suppose I shouldn�t be surprised. Maybe I ought to be pleased that she was sensible enough to take precautions against becoming pregnant. But � for three years?

�Is there any other medical reason you might be aware of that could explain her sudden disappearance?� the policeman asked.

�Absolutely not,� Duncan replied. �I have been Amanda Newton�s doctor since she was two years old, and I consider this to be totally out of character.�

�In your professional capacity as her doctor, would you describe Miss Newton as being vulnerable or particularly at risk?�

�There is no medical reason for believing so, but I judge that any young woman of nineteen who has disappeared without explanation, especially at night, should be considered to be at risk.�

The policeman made another note. �Thank you, Doctor.�

Duncan went back to his seat, and the policeman turned back to me.

�My dispatcher said something about you believing that your daughter might have been abducted. Why is that?�

�Why else would she not be here at her own birthday party? And what about the scarf? She wouldn�t just take it off and drop it.�

He didn�t seem convinced.

�I also wonder if she might have been a target for kidnappers,� I said. �I have a very valuable horse. It won the Derby this afternoon.�

That seemed like a very long time ago now.

�Have you received any ransom demands?�

�No,� I replied.

I took from his body language that he didn�t believe for one second that Amanda had been kidnapped. But if not, where was she? Would she really go missing for a couple of hours during her birthday party if she hadn�t been forced away by someone?

The policeman snapped shut his notebook.

�I will make a report and circulate your daughter�s details on the National Police Computer. Checks will also be made to ensure she is not in police custody or a patient in a local hospital.�

The two officers turned as if to leave.

�Is that all?� I said, grabbing one of their yellow jackets. �You haven�t even looked for her!�

The policeman turned back to face me.

�It is my assessment that this is a low-risk missing person situation and that your daughter has most likely gone away from here at her own volition. She is an adult, and choosing to leave, even in the middle of her own birthday party, is not a crime, nor is it a police matter.�

�But there is one other thing,� I said, lowering my voice. �It seems Amanda had an argument tonight with her boyfriend. The boy in question has shown controlling behaviour towards her in the past, and I am really worried that he might have something to do with her disappearance.�

�What�s her boyfriend�s name?�

�Darren Williamson,� I said. �I believe he�s already known to you.�

�Why is that?�

�He was convicted of joy riding in a stolen car in Didcot last year.�

�Is he here?�

�He�s over there.� I gestured towards where he was sitting.

Darren saw me pointing at him. His eyes widened, and he suddenly stood up and bolted for the marquee exit.

�Pangbourne! But that�s miles away. How did she get there?�

�We are still trying to establish that,� said the policemen.

We were all back in the kitchen, sitting around the table.

�It seems she banged on someone�s front door in Pangbourne, asking for help, and the homeowner called 999. We heard the report on our personal radios when we were not that far down the road, so we came straight back to tell you.�

�Thank you. Thank you.� I said it with meaning.

�Where is she now?� I asked.

�She�s been taken to the Royal Berkshire Hospital in Reading.�

�Is she hurt?� Georgina�s voice was still full of fear.

�Not that I�m aware of,� said the policeman. �But it�s normal practice for missing persons who are found to be taken straight to a hospital. To check that they are well and that they have not been abused.�

�Abused?� Georgina asked.

�Injured or ... anything.�

Raped, he meant, I realised.

�Can we go and collect her?� I asked.

�In due course,� he said. �She will need to be interviewed first. If it is believed she�s been the victim of a crime, she�ll have to be examined by our forensic team for traces of DNA. I assure you, she�ll be quite safe overnight in hospital. Security will be provided.�

�But we want her home,� Georgina insisted.

�Mrs Newton,� said the policeman quietly, �I understand your wish to have her back here with her family, but first and foremost, we have to determine her wishes.�

�What do you mean by that?� Georgina demanded.

�She�s over the age of eighteen, and therefore she is legally an adult. She may have left of her own free will. Perhaps she doesn�t want to come back.�

�Don�t be ridiculous,� Georgina said.

But I could see the strength of his argument, even if I didn�t believe it.

Surely she would have not left of her own free will without at least taking her phone with her. Unless, of course, she didn�t want it to help trace where she had gone.

For the moment, I was just so thankful that she had been found. I could happily wait until the morning to get the answers to the questions of how and why she had disappeared, only to turn up nine miles away.

And there were certainly some pressing questions in my head.

Had she walked to Pangbourne? Or had she been driven?

Walking nine miles in three hours was not particularly difficult for a fit nineteen-year-old. But she�d been wearing a party dress and high-heeled shoes. Or had she stashed a change of clothes and footwear close by, ready for use?

�What was she wearing when she banged on this person�s door?� I asked.

�I don�t have that information,� replied the policeman. �I am sure that all the questions will be answered in the morning.�

Probably not all of them, I thought.

�So what happens to Darren Williamson now?�

�He will probably still be detained overnight. Possession of a Class A drug is a serious matter. He�ll be interviewed in the morning and may be charged.�

�May be?�

�If it�s his first drug offence, he will likely be released with an official caution.�

�A caution? That hardly seems enough punishment for supplying my daughter with cocaine.�

�We have no evidence of that. It might have been the other way around. In fact we have no evidence that either Mr Williamson or your daughter took cocaine at all, other than what Mr Williamson said to us earlier, and he might not have been telling the truth.�

Now that wouldn�t surprise me for a second.

�And accepting an official police caution is a formal admission of guilt and becomes part of the person�s criminal record. It�s a lot more than just a slap on the wrist.�

It didn�t sound like it to me.

�Right,� said the policeman, standing up. �Time for us to leave.�

I walked the two officers through to the hallway and out onto the driveway.

�Do you still need the list of names and addresses of our party guests?�

�That will depend on what your daughter has to say. I�ll let you know.�

The two officers climbed into their car and drove away, and I went back to the kitchen.

�I want to go to the hospital,� Georgina stated determinedly.

�We will in the morning,� I said.

�I want to go now. I need to look after my little girl.�

�She�s not a little girl anymore.� I said it quietly and gently. �She�s a fully grown young woman.�

�To me, she�ll always be my little girl,� Georgina said, looking across the table. �And I want to see her right now!�

�But even if we do go to the hospital, there�s no guarantee the police will let us see her.�

�I still want to be close by, in case she needs me.�

Even I could see that further argument would be futile. Either I drove Georgina to the hospital or she would drive herself, and I wasn�t at all sure that her mind was sufficiently rational under the circumstances. James was certainly in no fit state to get behind the wheel of a car. He was the only one who had continued drinking after the party had come to an abrupt halt, and he still had a can of lager in his hand even now.

�Okay,� I said. �I�ll take you to the hospital.�

�Will you be all right to drive?�

�I�ll have to be,� I said. �James, you stay here in case the police call again on the landline.�

�Why would they do that?� he asked, somewhat slurring his words.

�Just stay here in case they do,� I said, resisting the temptation to get cross with him.

�All right,� he said, standing up and swaying slightly. �No problem.�

If he had any more alcohol, I thought, he wouldn�t hear the phone even if it exploded.

James was still not in bed when we arrived home, but he was fast asleep.

All the lights were still on throughout the house, and he was snoring gently on the sofa in the sitting room. I picked up a throw from the footstool and placed it over him.

�Let him be,� I said to Georgina. �He�s going to have quite a hangover in the morning.�

As was I, but not from drinking.

Georgina had dozed all the way home from Reading, but my mind had been sharp and awake, and asking questions.

Who had phoned me? What did they want me to do?

And � perhaps the most pressing of the questions I was trying to answer � should I report the call to the police?

Part of my brain said, Of course you must because it�s a police matter.

But another part said, No, you mustn�t because it might put Amanda in danger.

The man � I thought of the caller as a man because I doubted that a woman would have had the strength to carry Amanda away � hadn�t actually told me not to call the police. Was that because he was confident of not being identified even if I did?

Georgina and I went to bed, turning out the light at half past five, when the sun had already been up for more than half an hour, and was shining brightly against our bedroom window.

Even though I had been awake now for over twenty-four hours, I couldn�t sleep, endlessly tossing and turning as I tried to get the squeaky voice out of my head.

I must have eventually gone to sleep, because I was awakened by my phone ringing on my bedside table. In trepidation I picked it up. The screen showed me the time was eight-thirty. It also gave me the name of the caller � Owen Reynolds. Relieved, I answered it.

�Morning, Owen,� I said.

�Morning, Chester. I hope I�m not too early.� Eight-thirty was positively late for a trainer who would be up at five o�clock every day. �Did your party go well?�

�It was definitely one I will never forget,� I replied. �What can I do for you?�

�Eleanor and I are having a bit of a bash here at five o�clock this afternoon, to celebrate the Derby win. It�s mostly for my stable staff and some neighbours from our village, but we thought it would be nice to also invite the owning syndicate, and yourself and Georgina, of course. Potassium will also parade. But I need the syndicate members� telephone numbers to invite them.�

�No problem,� I said. �I�ll email them over to you.�

�Great. Could you also bring the trophy with you, for display?�

�I�ll see what I can do.�

�Great,� he said again. �See you later.�

He disconnected and I lay back on the pillow, holding my mobile. The last thing I really wanted to do was to drive over to Owen�s yard and be full of bonhomie, but it came with the territory.

I continually needed more and more syndicate members, as those I had were becoming older, and some had dropped off the list altogether, either through death or because they couldn�t afford horse ownership in their retirement.

Winning the Derby was the best marketing tool I could have ever asked for, and much of it would be done by word of mouth from the existing syndicate. Hence I needed to be there to press their flesh and get across the message that it was Victrix that gave you wings, at least with the horses.

Owning racehorses is all about dreaming.

Most owners � nay, almost all of them � lose money. Certainly, no one does it to make a fortune. Buying a racehorse, whether it be outright or with others in a syndicate, is to buy into a certain lifestyle.

Make no mistake, I was in the luxury-goods market. Owning racehorses isn�t cheap, but it is a price that some are prepared to pay to live the high life. And occasionally they strike it rich � like owning the winner of the Derby.

It was the slot-machine logic. Everyone knows that the casinos have fixed the systems so that, over time, slots never pay out as much cash as they consume. That�s why they�re known as �one-arm bandits.� But still people play them. Partly for the thrill of the gamble but also in the knowledge that, maybe this time, they will hit the jackpot.

And the Las Vegas casinos absolutely love it when someone actually does win a million dollars of their money on a giant slot machine. They know that, with the publicity such a win generates, tens of thousands more punters will flood through their doors to try their luck.

So here I was, hoping for the same thing.

Potassium�s win in the Derby, and the publicity it would generate, should have prospective syndicate members queuing at my door, chasing the same dream.

Hence, I would go to Owen Reynolds�s stable yard at five o�clock, although whether I could convince Georgina to come with me was another matter. She hadn�t wanted to do much recently. She blamed her hormones, as she had done for most things for quite a long while now. �It�s the menopause,� she would say, as if that was the excuse for everything, as indeed it might be. And pause was certainly the right word. Our whole lives together as a married couple seemed to be �on pause.�

I looked across at her, and decided to leave her sleeping. She could do with the sleep, something else she often couldn�t get enough of because of the hormones rampaging through her body. We would hear soon enough if there was any news from the Royal Berkshire Hospital.

I threw on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and went downstairs.

James was still on the sofa in the sitting room, but he was just about awake, sitting up and holding his head.

�Morning, James,� I said. �How�s the hangover?�

�Don�t ask,� he replied. �Did you see Amanda?�

�Only briefly.�

�Did she tell you what happened?�

I shook my head. �She�d been sedated. But I hope to hear from her soon.�

Or from the police, I thought.

I went through the kitchen and to my office, to send Owen the email with the Potassium syndicate members� telephone numbers. I was sure none of them would object to me sharing their personal information � not under the circumstances.

I sat at my desk for a while, answering the mass of congratulatory emails I had received from a large number of people, especially from members of my other syndicates, who seemed genuinely happy that a Victrix horse had won the Derby, even if it wasn�t the one they actually owned shares in.

As I was just finishing, someone rang the front door bell.

I had installed one of those security systems that showed a video on my mobile phone of who was there. I could also talk to them.

�Hello,� I said, looking at the image of a woman in her thirties, standing on the porch.

�Is that Mr Newton?� she said. �Mr Chester Newton?�

�Yes,� I replied.

�I�m Detective Sergeant Christine Royle of Thames Valley Police.� She held up her police warrant card to the camera so I could read it. �Can I come in?�

�Just a minute.�

I rushed through the kitchen and the hallway to the front door.

DS Royle was not alone. Standing by her car was a younger man.

�This is DC Abbot.�

I showed the two of them into the house, then through into the kitchen, where we sat at the table.

�Have you spoken to my daughter?� I asked.

�Indeed, we have,� said the detective sergeant. �We�ve come straight here from the hospital.�

�Is she all right?� I asked with concern.

�She was fine when I left her,� the DS replied. �She�s now resting.�

�What did she say happened?�

�That�s the problem. She told me she has no memory of anything that occurred yesterday evening. The last thing she can remember is getting dressed for your party. She claims to have no recollection of how or why she ended up in hospital. I am hoping that some of her memory might return later. But blood tests have shown she has both cocaine and ketamine in her system.�

�Ketamine? Isn�t that a drug used by vets on horses?�

�It�s also an anaesthetic for humans and is widely used for relieving acute pain due to injury. But it�s also taken illegally by some people as a recreational drug. And it can make people do the strangest of things, sometimes totally out of character. Mr Newton, are you aware that your daughter is a drug user?�

�I wasn�t. Not until last night when her boyfriend admitted that they had both snorted some cocaine before the party.�

�And ketamine?�

�Not that I was aware of,� I said. �But I wouldn�t put anything past Darren Williamson. Why don�t you ask him? He was arrested here last night for possessing cocaine. The officers said he�d been taken to Oxford.�

�He has since been released with a caution,� the DS said.

�When?� I asked.

�In the early hours, after your daughter had been located. There was no reason to detain him any longer. There�s been a major disturbance in Oxford City Centre overnight, which involved rioting and looting. It always seems to happen when the weather is hot and people drink too much. Anyway, numerous arrests were made, and Mr Williamson was released to make room in the cells.�

At this point Georgina walked into the kitchen in her dressing gown.

�I thought I heard voices down here,� she said. �What�s happened?�

�Nothing,� I said. �Amanda�s fine. These people are detectives. They�ve come to ask us some questions about last night.�

The detective sergeant stood up. �I�m DS Royle and this is DC Abbot. I assume you are Mrs Newton?�

�Yes,� said Georgina. �I am.�

�I�ve just been telling your husband that your daughter has no memory of the events of last evening. At least, that�s what she�s been telling us.�

�Don�t you believe her?� Georgina asked sharply.

�Should I have any reason not to?� asked the DS.

�None,� Georgina replied emphatically.

She would always defend her daughter.

The detective took a notebook from her jacket pocket and opened it. �Could you both please give me an account of events last evening, in particular, prior to your daughter going missing? Especially anything unusual.�

I wondered if winning the Derby counted as unusual.

I went through everything I could remember, from the time I had arrived home from Epsom until the moment I had been unable find Amanda for the speeches. I also described the actions taken afterwards to try and find her.

�Have you anything to add, Mrs Newton?� asked the detective.

�Nothing,� Georgina replied. �I think Chester has covered everything.�

The detective closed her notebook.

�I will need a list of the names and addresses of all your guests. I believe you told the constables last night that you could provide one.�

�Yes,� I said. �I have an Excel file. I�ll go and print it out.�

I went through to my office, printed the list from my computer, and took it back to the kitchen.

�Don�t forget to cross off my mother, and also Richard and Sarah Bassett,� Georgina said. �They didn�t come.�

I put a line through their names and then handed the list to the detective.

�You seem to be taking this matter very seriously,� I said to her. �Do you really think that my daughter just had a bad drug trip and wandered off, or is there something you�re not telling us?�

The DS hesitated. So there was something else.

�I think we have a right to know,� I said. �We are her parents.�

�But your daughter is over eighteen. She�s now an adult, able to make her own decisions, and she is also entitled to her privacy, even from her parents. But are either of you aware if your daughter was in the habit of injecting herself with anything?�

�Like what?� Georgina asked, somewhat alarmed.

�Drugs.�

�As I told you, we were not aware of her taking any drugs,� I said. �Why do you ask?�

The DS hesitated again, as if deciding whether to tell us. In the end she clearly made up her mind to do so. �It would appear that there is an injection puncture mark on her skin.�

�Whereabouts on her skin?� Georgina asked.

�On her neck,� said the detective. �Close to her jugular vein.�

�Her jugular vein!� I said. �How could anyone inject themselves there?�

�You�d be surprised. Some addicts regularly inject into their jugulars when they can no longer find a suitable vein anywhere else.�

�But that�s ridiculous,� I said. �Someone else must have injected her.�

�With what?� Georgina asked.

�Ketamine,� the DS replied.

�What�s that?� asked Georgina, now deeply worried.

�An anaesthetic. Blood tests show it is in her system, and she is also displaying some of the after-effects of ketamine, in particular amnesia and confusion.�

�But is she all right now?� I asked.

�She�s better this morning, but because of the ketamine, we are now treating her disappearance as a possible abduction.�

�Only a possible abduction?� I said. �What other explanation could there be?�

�We are still looking into that.�

See how easy it was for me to take your daughter, the squeaky voice had said. In the future, you will do as I say, or next time she�ll come home in a body bag.

I debated again whether I should tell this police officer about that call.

�Tell me,� I said to her casually. �If someone receives a nuisance call with No Caller ID shown on their phone, can the police find out who made it?�

She looked at me. �Why do you want to know?�

�No reason,� I said. �I just wondered.�

�It�s technically possible but it�s complicated because of privacy laws. And it also depends on the caller�s number having been properly registered. Most nuisance callers use unregistered burner phones, which makes it impossible to trace them.�

So there was absolutely no point in me telling the detective about the call I�d received from Squeaky Voice. It wouldn�t lead to him being traced, and it might put Amanda in greater danger.

�Have you been receiving nuisance calls?� asked DS Royle, her detective antennae clearly quivering wildly.

�No,� I said quickly. �But as the owner of yesterday�s Derby winner, I�m worried I might. You know. Begging calls and such. I�ve heard of it happening to others.�

�Let us know if it happens, and we�ll see what we can do about it.�

DS Royle handed me one of her business cards with her direct dial telephone number printed on it.

�Thank you,� I said, putting the card in my wallet. �So, when can we collect Amanda?�

�She is free to leave the hospital at any time,� replied the detective sergeant blandly. �But it�s for her to decide where she goes when discharged. Are you sure she will agree to come home with you?�

�Absolutely certain,� Georgina said.

But was there something else the detective wasn�t telling us?

I went to Owen Reynolds�s yard for his �bit of a bash� on my own. I didn�t even bother asking Georgina to come with me, telling her that I was going to a meeting with Owen to discuss Potassium�s future, rather than to a celebration.

Having a celebration somehow didn�t seem to be appropriate under the circumstances, but I couldn�t not go. Everyone would expect me to be there and to have brought the Derby trophy with me.

As it turned out, I had, in fact, driven Amanda home � her and Darren sitting side by side on the back seat of my Jaguar 4x4, with Georgina in the front next to me, all of us in an uneasy silence.

Not that Amanda had changed her mind.

When we had arrived back at the house, she had collected a few things from her room, including her mobile phone and charger, and then she and Darren had driven away in her old Ford Fiesta, and without so much as a backward glance.

Who will now pay the tax and insurance on that car? I�d thought.

But I knew the answer.

I would. As I always had.

I didn�t believe that Amanda had the slightest idea how much money it took just to live. At home, she had no bills to pay and had food placed on the table in front of her for every meal. Hence, I was confident that she would soon be back, but keeping her safe in the meantime was my main worry, not just from Squeaky Voice but also from Darren and the drugs.

On Monday morning I was at my desk, as usual, by seven thirty, having made myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen on the way through.

I glanced through the digital version of the Racing Post on my computer, to see if there was any news I needed to know � there wasn�t � and then set about contacting the eleven trainers of the Victrix horses.

Entries for most horse races have to be made by noon, six days before the race, or five days before those on Saturdays. Only for the most valuable races, such as Group 1 races like the Derby, did entries close at least a month or more earlier.

Having entered a horse, it was possible for me to look online at the list of other entrants, discuss them with the trainer, and decide if we wanted the horse to run. If so, we had to declare it as a runner by ten AM two days before the race, and advise the name of our jockey by one PM the same day. If we decided against or if we failed to declare in time, the horse wouldn�t run, and the entry stake money would be forfeited.

With currently forty horses under Victrix management, there were decisions to be made almost every day about entries and declarations.

I normally spent a couple of hours each morning at my desk, phoning or emailing the trainers. Many of the calls or emails were short, just confirming an entry or declaration, which would then be actioned by the trainer; while others would be much longer as we discussed future strategy for a given horse.

On average, a flat racehorse will take part in six or seven races each year, but many run as often as ten times, and the record is more than twice that. It is often the case that the better the horse, the less it races � maybe only three or four times a year, but that is not always true.

Frankel ran fourteen times in three years, winning every one, and the great Australian mare, Black Caviar, won every one of her twenty-five races over a four-year period � including travelling halfway around the world to land the Jubilee Stakes at Royal Ascot. And another stellar Australian mare, Winx, ran forty-three times over five years, winning thirty-seven of them � the last thirty-three in a row � amassing an incredible fourteen million pounds of prize money.

My syndicate members obviously liked their horses to race as often as possible, and preferably on Saturdays. That gave them more chance to go and watch their horses run, and I tried to accommodate their wishes where I could, provided it was the best thing for the horses.

Consequently, there were Victrix horses running somewhere every week � sometimes two or three of them on a single day � and finding the perfectly rated race for each horse, at an appropriate distance and carrying a favourable weight, such that it maximized its chance of winning, was like a game of three-dimensional chess. And of course, everyone else was doing exactly the same to try and make their horse the winner.

I employed two female assistants to help me, both working remotely on computers in their own homes. Every day, they would update the detailed spreadsheets, one for each Victrix horse, to ensure that entry deadlines weren�t missed, and all bills were paid on time. And every morning I would receive an email from each, showing me what I needed to do on that day. I was nominally their boss, but it was clearly they who bossed me, and I couldn�t imagine how I could now operate without them.

At ten past nine, I called my final trainer, Owen Reynolds, when I knew he would be back in his own office after an early summer morning spent on the gallops.

�How was the barbecue?� I asked.

�Great,� he replied. �But a few of the lads had sore heads this morning, especially for first lot at five thirty.�

�How is Potassium today?�

�He ate up really well last night. He just had a short loosening canter this morning, but he seems great.�

�Good. So what�s next for him?� I asked.

�Depends on whether we want to stay at a mile and half, like the Derby, or drop down to a mile and a quarter.�

�After Saturday�s close shave, I�d be happier at a mile and a quarter, especially against older horses.�

�Me too,� said Owen. �Shame, really. I�ve always wanted to win a King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes or a Prix de l�Arc de Triomphe. Not to mention the Breeders� Cup Turf. All those are a mile and a half.� I could hear him sigh down the line. �So, are we then agreed that the plan is to go for the International Stakes at York in August and, provided that goes well, the Champion Stakes at Ascot in October? Both at a mile and a quarter.�

�How about the Breeders� Cup Classic instead of the Champion Stakes?� I said. �That�s also a mile and a quarter, and winning at York would give him automatic free entry to the Classic, and the Americans will even pay the travel costs for both the horse and connections.�

�Let�s not get ahead of ourselves,� Owen said with a laugh. �We�ll only consider the Breeders� Cup if, and after, he wins at York. And remember, he�s never run on a dirt track before � always on turf.�

�It�s a long time from now until the International Stakes in the second half of August. Are we ruling out Royal Ascot completely? The St James�s Palace Stakes is over only a mile, but it might suit him.�

�He�s not entered for that. Entries closed at the beginning of May, and I think we decided against at the time. Maybe that was a mistake.�

Or an oversight, I thought.

The Group 1 St James�s Palace Stakes was run on the first day of Royal Ascot, in the third week in June, in just fifteen days� time.

�We could always supplement him.�

A supplementary entry was made only five or six days before a big race, when normal entries had closed early, and it was a very expensive way of getting a horse into a race late.

A normal entry for the St James�s Palace Stakes cost �8,125, paid in three separate tranches � �2,845 to enter in early May, �3,250 unless scratched by the end of May, and �2,030 on confirmation by noon six days before the race. Supplementary entry, however, cost a whopping �46,000.

A supplemented horse would have to finish in the first three just to recover its entry costs. But, if it won, it collected more than three hundred and sixty thousand in prize money, so it might be worth it.

�We have some time to think about that,� Owen said. �We�ll see how he recovers over the next week. And we could always consider the Eclipse at Sandown at the beginning of July, or even the Sussex Stakes at Goodwood � that�s also only a mile � and he�s provisionally entered for both of those.�

�Okay,� I said. �Let�s make a decision on the St James�s Palace next week. Meanwhile, enter him for the International, and let�s keep him in the others for now, other than the Arc. And we�ll also definitely skip the King George.�

�I agree,� said Owen.

We went on to discuss the three other Victrix horses in his yard, but those conversations were somewhat mundane in comparison to that of Potassium, including into which race to enter a late-developing three-year-old gelding called Dream Filler at the upcoming Saturday evening meeting at Lingfield. Our choices were either a Class 5 Novice Stakes, over seven furlongs, or a mile-long Class 6 Handicap � prize to the winner �4,100 or �3,250, respectively.

We opted for the Class 6 Handicap as the better chance for a win, a mere nine steps down the race-quality ladder from the Epsom Derby.

Such were most of my discussions and decisions with trainers.

Potassium was the exception, not the rule.

After speaking with Owen, I took DS Royle�s business card from my wallet and called her on her direct line.

�DS Royle, Thames Valley Police,� she said, answering at the first ring.

�Good morning, Detective Sergeant,� I said. �This is Chester Newton, Amanda Newton�s father. I am calling to see if you have made any progress with your investigations.�

�I�m afraid I have nothing more to tell you since yesterday. Clearly, we are delighted that your daughter turned up safe and well, with no signs of any form of abuse.�

�What about the injection in her neck?� I asked. �Is that not a form of abuse?�

�Minor abuse, I agree. But I really meant that there was no evidence that she had been sexually abused.�

�Have you searched through any CCTV from Pangbourne that might show how she arrived there?� I asked.

�No,� replied the detective. �That would take many man-hours to collect and then to examine.�

She didn�t exactly say out loud that she didn�t think it would be a good use of her limited resources, but her tone certainly implied that.

�Have you made any house-to-house enquiries in Pangbourne?�

�No.�

�Are you, in fact, still investigating Amanda�s abduction?�

�Her case remains open,� she said. �But I have more pressing enquiries to make elsewhere at present. Perhaps you might have heard on local radio that there were further serious disturbances in Oxford last night, and a critical incident has now been declared by the chief constable.� She paused. �Now, if you will excuse me, Mr Newton, I have to go and interview a man whose home was set ablaze by the rioters and whose wife is still unaccounted for.�

She disconnected.

I suppose I couldn�t really blame her for her choice of priority.

I finally put my phone down on my desk at a quarter to ten.

I then sent emails to the syndicates for those horses that the trainers and I had agreed today to enter for races over the coming weekend, or to declare to run in two days� time, to give the members the maximum time to arrange to attend or not, and to apply through Victrix Racing for entrance badges.

I prided myself on the amount of time I spent communicating with all my syndicate members, either by phone or email. I wanted each of them to feel that they were as involved with the horses as if they had wholly owned them individually, and I was sure it was one of the chief reasons for my success. It was certainly a major factor in attracting so many repeat Victrix shareholders year on year.

I stood up and stretched.

Very often, it would now be nearly time for me to be off to the races to watch a Victrix horse in action during the afternoon, but this day I was attending the evening meeting at Windsor, so I wouldn�t have to leave until after four o�clock.

My phone rang and I looked down at it.

No caller ID was displayed on the screen, and my heart missed a beat.

I picked the phone up and slid my finger across the screen to answer it.

�Hello.�

�Is that Chester Newton?� asked the squeaky voice.

�Yes,� I replied angrily. �What the bloody hell do you want?�

�You will enter Potassium into the Ascot Gold Cup.�

�What?�

He repeated. �You will enter Potassium into the Ascot Gold Cup.�

I almost laughed. �Don�t be ridiculous.�

�You will do as I say.�

�I can�t. Quite apart from the fact that entries for that race closed a month ago, it is reserved for horses aged over four, while Potassium is only three.�

The Ascot Gold Cup was also run over two and a half miles, twice the distance Owen and I considered appropriate for our horse.

There was a long pause from the other end of the line, and then whoever was there disconnected without saying another word.

I stood there holding my phone.

I was clearly dealing with an idiot � but he still might be a very dangerous idiot.

The theme of the Windsor race evening was the 1960s, and there was an abundance of flared jeans, tie-dyed shirts, multicoloured bandanas, and Jesus boots on display by both sexes, even though I was personally sporting a sand-coloured linen summer suit.

A Beatles tribute band blasted out the Fab Four�s greatest hits both before and after racing, Babycham was being drunk by the lorryload, and the main greeting spoken by people of all ages was �Peace, Man!�

But the racing itself was far from as it was back in 1960.

Modern methods were employed, including the use of starting stalls, large TV screens for the crowd to watch, and the bookmakers� on-site computers generating instantly printed betting slips, to say nothing of the scanning of the microchips inserted in all the horses� necks to check for �ringers,� and the rigorous, routine urine dope testing of all the winners for illegal stimulants.

The Victrix-owned horse I had come to see was a three-year-old bay colt called Balham, due to run in the fourth race at seven-fifteen, the Class 3 Windsor Sprint Series Qualifier, over six furlongs.

This was his first outing of the season, but he had shown considerable promise as a two-year-old, winning one race and placing in his other two runs before an injury had cut short his season. If things went well tonight, I had hopes of him competing in the prestigious Class 2 bet365 Handicap at the Newmarket July Festival.

As always, I had emailed the Balham syndicate owners with the details, and I knew from the replies that at least six of the twenty shareholders were planning to attend, some with their wives, husbands, or children.

All racecourses looked after the owners of the horses running in their races, affording them complimentary entry, a free meal, and subsidised drinks. Windsor was no exception, providing an excellent facility with balconies on each side overlooking both the parade ring and the track.

They appreciated, as we all did, that racing couldn�t continue without owners prepared to invest their money into bloodstock, and to pay the training, race-entry, and other fees. Up to eight owners� badges were available for each horse declared to run, with further badges on offer for larger syndicates, although those had no free meal attached.

It was the job of one of my assistants to liaise with both the syndicates and the racecourses to ensure the maximum number of our members could make use of the badges on offer, and to ensure that everyone had their turn.

As usual, I had agreed to meet my syndicate members in the Owners and Trainers� Restaurant before the first. I didn�t need to be here to supervise the preparations for the race � the trainer would do all that. My job, as always, was to be the Victrix PR front man. The members would expect me to be here to welcome them and to give them any inside information I might have about the horse.

Many of them liked to have a bet on their horses � mostly a small wager just for fun � and the size of the stake might be affected by my report on how the animal had been performing in its training and my evaluation of its chances.

The racing regulations clearly state that an owner is allowed to bet on their runner, or indeed on any other, but they are not allowed to �lay� their own horse, that is, they are not allowed to take bets from others � in effect betting that their horse will lose � such as is now possible on the online betting exchanges like Betfair or BETDAQ.

Similarly, trainers can bet on any horse, even those in their care, but are not allowed to �lay� their own, or instruct anyone else to do so on their behalf, or to receive any of the proceeds of any such bet.

There are also restrictions on anyone involved in any way with a horse contacting directly or indirectly with betting organisations, particularly against passing on insider information to bookmakers about the likely chances of their horse in any given race.

Overall, the racing authorities have a very peculiar love � hate relationship with bookmakers and the betting companies. While they recognise that gambling revenues are the lifeblood of the sport, and without legalised betting, horseracing as we know it would not exist, they are also aware that betting can invite corruption.

Their prime concern is to maintain probity and trust within the sport. Consequently, they have to weave a middle path, allowing owners and trainers to bet � but not jockeys � while attempting to maintain the integrity of the races.

Bookmakers and online betting companies also pour tens of millions of pounds into race sponsorship, not only to support the goose that lays their golden eggs but also as a form of advertising to the punters.

Balham was trained by Richie Mackenzie, a young up-and-coming trainer from Newmarket, whom I had spotted as a potential Victrix trainer as soon as he had acquired his licence, and it had been a fruitful choice. He now had five Victrix horses in his ever-expanding string, and he was building a new stable block at home to house yet more.

As with my other trainers, I had spoken to Richie this morning. He had also agreed to meet me in the Owners and Trainers� Restaurant, forty minutes before the first race, but he was there ahead of me, chatting to the syndicate members.

One of the side benefits of syndicate membership were the stable visits I regularly arranged for members to visit their horses at home and to watch them at exercise on the gallops. Trainers were usually very good at accommodating members, and feeding them with bacon rolls, and there had been a stable visit to Richie�s yard only a couple of weeks ago, so some of them were already well acquainted.

�So, Richie,� I said after all introductions were complete, �does Balham have a good chance this evening?�

�I would say so,� he replied. �He�s been working well at home. But he�s been off a racecourse since last August because of the injury to his hock. That�s all cleared up now, but he might still be a bit race rusty. On the plus side, his handicap rating is generous, and I�d say that he is definitely worth an each-way bet.�

An each-way bet was not only a bet for the horse to win but also one to place, that is for it to finish in the first three. The place bet may not win you much, but it might cover your loss of stake on the win bet, that�s if he came in second or third.

There were murmurs of approval from the syndicate members.

�Do we have any idea what his starting price will be?� asked Derek Berkeley, one of my most long-standing members.

�I expect him to start at about six-to-one, maybe thirteen-to-two if we�re lucky,� Richie said. �Kennedy Curse is the top weight, but he will likely start as favourite, having won easily at Newmarket last month. He might be as short as nine-to-four or even two-to-one, but he�s giving us ten pounds in the handicap, and I reckon he�s been overrated.�

Handicap races were those in which the weight a horse carried on its back was determined by a rating given to it by the official handicapper, based on its previous performances � the better the horse, the higher was its rating, and so the more weight it carried. The aim was to give every horse an equal chance of winning, to make the races highly competitive, ideal for encouraging the public to go racing and gamble on the outcome, something the racecourses desperately wanted.

Five of the seven races at Windsor this evening were handicaps, the other two being novice races for inexperienced young horses.

�So will you be backing Balham?� Derek asked Richie pointedly.

Richie laughed. �I�m backing him with my reputation.�

Everyone else now laughed, but it was more of a nervous titter than an outright guffaw.

�Right,� said Richie. �I also have a runner in the second race that needs my attention. Don�t forget, Balham is in the fourth, at a quarter past seven. I�ll see you all in the parade ring beforehand.�

Richie walked away with the thanks of the syndicate members ringing in his ears, and then, as one, they turned their attention to me.

�So what do you think?� Derek asked.

�I agree with Richie,� I said.

�So will you be backing him?�

�Yes, I will,� I said quickly. �As Rickie recommended, I�ll have a small each-way bet.�

And it will be a small bet, I thought, because I hated losing. I was staking too much on the success of Victrix horses as it was, without adding to it with my hard-earned cash.

I left my syndicate members in the restaurant to enjoy their free steak-and-kidney-pie supper while I went down to the weighing room, not so much to see anyone in particular as to be seen. It was good for business.

�Hi, Chester. Well done with Potassium on Saturday,� said a man coming out of the Press Room.

�Thanks, Jerry,� I replied.

Jerry Parker worked for the Racing Post, the sport�s dedicated daily newspaper.

�Maybe I should do a feature about you,� Jerry said.

�Anytime you like,� I said, smiling.

�Do you have anything running this evening?� he asked.

�Balham in the Sprint Qualifier.�

�Any chance?�

�Fair to middling,� I said. �He�s coming back from injury.�

�Good luck. And I�ll be in touch about that feature.�

�Thanks.�

Jerry hurried away and I went on smiling. A feature in the Racing Post was just the sort of publicity I had hoped for after the Derby win.

�So what are you so happy about?� said a booming voice, bringing me back from my daydreaming.

Bill Parkinson, a member of the Potassium syndicate, was standing a few yards in front of me, and he was no longer in his morning-dress striped trousers.

�Hi, Bill,� I said. �What brings you here?�

�I�m a guest at the charity dinner.� He pointed over towards the Riverbank Restaurant marquees on the far side of the parade ring.

�Which charity?� I asked.

He looked somewhat perplexed. �I�m not sure. Something to do with cancer, I think. They seem to think I might bid at their auction.�

�And will you?� I asked.

He laughed. �Depends on what they�re selling. I have a bit of spare cash after Saturday, but most of that is already spoken for.� He looked at his watch. �I�d better be getting back as the auction will be starting soon, and I should at least be there for it.�

I watched his back as he strode away.

Bill Parkinson was a brash outspoken man, originally from Birmingham, who had run a highly successful chain of video rental stores right across the south of England before the introduction of online streaming of films by Netflix had quite suddenly and catastrophically put him out of business. Such had been the rate of takeover by internet downloads from rented DVDs that Bill�s video-rental company had gone from having over two hundred busy and successful stores in January 2013 to total closure, compulsory liquidation, and bankruptcy just nine months later.

I knew this because Victrix is required to make background checks on all its syndicate members to ensure they meet the racing authority�s definition of a �fit and proper� person, and to ensure that money-laundering regulations are adhered to.

Fortunately for Bill, the bankruptcy of his company didn�t apply to him personally, which was lucky for me too, because the British Horseracing Authority regulations clearly state that any person or entity that is subject to any form of insolvency proceedings is banned from having any legal or beneficial interest in a horse running in any race.

I went back to the Owners and Trainers� Restaurant for some steak and kidney pie, and to watch the first two races, and then, during the third, I wandered over to the saddling boxes to wait for Richie Mackenzie and Balham to arrive. On my way, I stopped at one of the Tote betting desks and wagered ten pounds each way on him because I knew that Derek Berkeley would check.

I didn�t always go and watch the Victrix horses being saddled, but I liked to if I could.

With great respect for the horsemanship � or rather the lack of it � of most of my syndicate members, it was my general rule that they should go directly to the parade ring rather than try to watch their horses being saddled. A large group of people, each of them jostling to get a better view, could easily upset the animal at a time the trainer and I were doing our best to keep it calm.

However, my general rule didn�t apply to me as I felt an extra pair of calming, helping hands could be useful, especially if the horse was frisky or skittish.

On this occasion, Balham was far from that, appearing somewhat lifeless.

�Is he all right?� I asked Richie. �He seems half asleep.�

�Don�t worry,� he replied. �He�s always like this at home. He�ll soon wake up when he gets out on the track.�

I stood back and watched Richie go to work.

While the stable lad stood in front of the head, using the reins to hold the animal still, Richie first placed a square nonslip chamois leather cloth over the horse�s back. Next went on the saddle pad, then the weight cloth was placed on top of that, above the withers.

A weight cloth is a synthetic or leather purse-like device with pockets for holding lead sheets to bring the total weight the horse has to carry up to the correct amount � that�s if the jockey and his saddle together are lighter than is required.

Next to go on was a black number cloth with the horse�s racecard number boldly printed in large white figures on each side, then finally the jockey�s saddle itself, with its attached stirrup irons, all secured in place by a wide girth connected to two buckles on either side of the saddle and tightened around the horse�s body.

As a final safety measure, in case the regular girth or buckles were to fail, Richie placed a webbing overgirth around the whole lot, tightening it under the belly.

�There,� Richie said. �That should do him.�

He gave the horse an affectionate wake-up slap on its rump as the stable lad led him out of the saddling box and across to the parade ring. Richie and I followed behind and met up again with the syndicate members, who were already standing in a group on the grass.

�So, did you back him?� Derek Berkeley asked me bluntly as I arrived.

�Of course.� I briefly waved my Tote ticket at him, but with my thumb strategically placed over the stake amount.

We were soon joined by our featherweight jockey. He was wearing the Victrix colours.

This race might have just been a Class 3 handicap at a Monday evening meeting at Windsor, rather than the Group 1 Derby on Epsom Downs last Saturday, but I never tired of the feelings of pride and nervous anticipation that the sight of the royal blue-and-white-striped silks gave me.

There were eleven runners in total in this race, and I studied each one of them in turn.

In spite of still appearing rather lethargic, Balham looked well, with a nice shiny coat, but so did Kennedy Curse, as did most of the others.

Richie gave our jockey a leg up onto Balham�s back, and while he was being led out onto the track, the syndicate members and I went back to the Owners and Trainers� Restaurant to watch the race itself.

Windsor Racecourse is like a squashed figure eight surrounded on three sides by the meandering River Thames. It has a long straight down the middle, with a loop at either end. The six-furlong start was at the far end of the straight from the grandstands, way away to our left, partially hidden by a slight curve in the running rails.

I watched on the big screen in front of the grandstand as the horses were taken behind the starting stalls and loaded. Balham had been drawn in stall number one, closest to the far-side running rail.

�They�re off,� called the racecourse commentator as the starter dropped his flag and the gates snapped open. This race was over only half the distance of the Derby, and it was, as its name suggested, a straightforward sprint from the start to the finish, lasting a mere seventy seconds.

The eleven horses broke in an even line. Balham had clearly now woken up as he made the running along the rail over the first couple of furlongs. I watched the screen as Kennedy Curse cruised up on his outside, taking over the lead by a head. But as the race progressed into the final furlong, those extra ten pounds of weight on his back compared to Balham�s began to take their toll as he came under pressure from his jockey, and I knew he would be beaten.

And he was. But so was Balham.

One of the other runners, one that was carrying even less weight, came up late on the outside to pip him on the line in a thrilling finish � but ultimately not a thrilling result, at least not for my syndicate members, all of whom had been totally convinced we were going to win.

Overall, I was quite encouraged by Balham�s run after such a lengthy injury layoff, but it was a group of very glum-faced owners that I led down to the space reserved in the unsaddling enclosure for the second.

�Ah well,� said Derek Berkeley with resignation. �Let�s hope for better luck next time.�

Yes, indeed, I thought. We had lost only by a nose, the same margin by which Potassium had won the Derby. Some you win, some you lose. Such are the fine margins between victory and defeat, joy and despair. But I know which of the races I would have rather won.

The syndicate members went to the bar to drown their sorrows while I made my excuses and decided to go home, stopping only briefly to collect my meagre winnings from the Tote and to have a quick chat with Richie to congratulate him on getting Balham safely back to the racecourse after his injury.

�So do you still fancy having a tilt at the bet365 Handicap next month?� he asked.

�What do you think?�

�It depends on what happens to his rating after today,� he said.

Every racehorse the world over is given an official handicap rating every Tuesday.

�We may have to wait now until next week to see if this result changes it. But we can easily wait until then before making any decisions.�

�All right, let�s do that,� Richie said. �But thanks for coming. Sorry I didn�t manage a win for your team.�

�Maybe next time,� I said.

The fifth race was in progress as I walked out to the car park.

Only when I was sitting inside my Jaguar, with the engine started, did I notice that there was a piece of paper tucked under one of the windscreen wipers.

Bloody advertising, I thought.

All too often these days, someone puts flyers on the windscreens of all the cars in the car park during racing, advertising everything from vehicle maintenance to exotic holidays.

I got out of the car again to remove it.

It was a plain white piece of paper, folded in half, but it wasn�t an advert.

I unfolded it. There was some writing on it in black capital letters. Three short lines of text:

As usual, Georgina was in another panic when I walked into the house at a quarter to ten.

�I can�t contact Amanda,� she squealed. �I�ve tried her phone multiple times all evening, but all I get is a voice that keeps telling me that her number is not recognised.�

I took my own phone out of my pocket and called Amanda�s number.

�This number is not recognised,� said a disembodied electronic voice. �Please check and try again.�

�How about Darren�s phone,� I said.

�I�ve tried that,� said Georgina. �It rings but he�s not answering, and I�m worried. What if she�s gone missing again?�

�I�m sure she�s fine,� I said. �Darren would tell us if something was wrong.�

�But I wouldn�t trust that boy to tell us anything.�

Georgina had a good point.

�Her phone is probably out of order,� I said. �I�ll sort it out in the morning.� I yawned. �I�m tired now and I�m going to bed.�

My wife wasn�t happy.

�Don�t you think we should drive over to Didcot and check?�

�No, I don�t. The last thing Amanda would want is her parents turning up late at night to check up on her. She�s no longer a child. Leave it until the morning. If we still can�t contact her tomorrow, I�ll go and see her.�

I started to go upstairs, leaving Georgina, still unhappy, standing in the hallway with her hands on her hips in frustration.

�I�ll go on my own then,� she said.

�Do you even know where Darren lives?� I said, stopping halfway up.

�No,� she said. �But I�ll find it.�

I only knew where Darren�s flat was because I had picked Amanda up from there a few weeks ago, but I�d never been inside.

I could tell what Georgina was doing. She was blackmailing me into going with her because I could hardly allow her to simply wander around Didcot all night, looking for Amanda on her own.

�Oh, all right,� I said, irritated. �Give me a minute.�

I went up to the bedroom and changed out of my linen suit into jeans and a lightweight sweatshirt before rushing down again, but even though I�d been really quick, Georgina was already out in my car, waiting for me, and she was holding the piece of paper I had carelessly left lying on the front passenger seat.

I went to Newbury races on Wednesday afternoon to watch a Victrix three-year-old run in a Class 4 Fillies� Handicap over seven furlongs.

I always liked to have runners at Newbury if I could manage it. Firstly, it was the closest racecourse to my home, so my travel was easy, and second, many of my syndicate members were also fairly local or lived to the west of London, which was just a simple trip down the M4 motorway. Add to that the fact that ten of the Victrix horses were also trained nearby, and it was clear that Newbury was a popular choice with many.

And it was certainly popular with those of my syndicate members present on this day because the Victrix filly romped home to win by two lengths, and at odds of six-to-one.

�You�re on bloody fire,� the Racing Post journalist Jerry Parker said to me with a smile in the unsaddling enclosure. �Let�s do that feature next week. I�ll call you tomorrow to arrange a time. I�ll come to your place if you like.�

�That would be great,� I replied.

I hadn�t originally planned to go to Lingfield races on Saturday evening, expecting to spend the afternoon at Haydock watching one of Victrix�s northern trained horses run in the Group 3 John of Gaunt Stakes, but events changed all that.

The post in our village normally didn�t arrive until well into the afternoon, and Friday�s was no exception. I was in the kitchen making myself a cheese sandwich for a late lunch when I heard the letters drop through the slot in the front door.

I went to collect them.

As always there was the usual unsolicited junk mail offering a free gift if I were to visit a newly constructed local retirement home, some clothes catalogues for Georgina, and a couple of utility bills. There were also three envelopes addressed to Amanda that I assumed were birthday cards, but it was the plain white envelope with my name and address written on it in bold, black, capital letters that particularly caught my eye.

I used a knife from the cutlery drawer to slit open the end of the envelope, and then I withdrew the single sheet of paper from inside. Written on it in the same bold, black, capital letters were just two lines:

I studied the front of the envelope. A single first-class stamp had been franked with three wavy lines alongside some printed words that showed that it had been through a sorting machine at the Royal Mail Swindon Mail Centre at precisely 16:19 and 50 seconds the previous afternoon.

There was nothing else to show where it had been posted, or by whom.

I stuffed the paper and the envelope into my trouser pocket.

Who could be doing this? Did I really believe his threats?

But could I afford not to?

So, on Saturday morning, I called the northern trainer of my Haydock runner and apologised for not being able to be there for the John of Gaunt Stakes after all, and set off southeast for Lingfield in Surrey instead.

The one-mile Class 6 Handicap for three-year-olds was the first race on the card, due off at 5.35, and I wanted to be there a good hour and a half beforehand, even though I had little idea of what I was going to do, if anything.

I had some mad idea of perhaps claiming in the parade ring that Dream Filler was lame and shouldn�t be allowed to race. Being withdrawn was not what Squeaky Voice had said he wanted � he�d said the horse should run � but it might be better for him than the horse winning.

The traffic on the M25 was lighter than normal, and I arrived at Lingfield Park Racecourse at quarter past three, more than two hours before the first race. I parked in the car park across the road from the main entrance, and I was so early that I had to wait fifteen minutes before the gates were opened.

Lingfield Park had always been one of my favourite racecourses, and I could well remember being brought here as a child by my father.

That had been before the installation of the first British all-weather racetrack at Lingfield in the late 1980s. Since then the building of a new grandstand, a hotel complex, and other developments have transformed the racecourse into one of the most popular in the country, with some sixty-seven race days throughout the year.

Many of the summer evening fixtures had music acts playing after racing on a stage set up on the paddock lawn, and I noticed from the racecard that today would be one of those, with a well-known band performing. It was the racecourse�s way of attracting more people through the turnstiles, especially the young, who would come by train from London to Lingfield station, conveniently positioned adjacent to the racecourse.

I had called Owen Reynolds before I left home, to tell him I was coming and that I would meet him in the saddling boxes before the first race. In the meantime, I wandered around, enjoying the June afternoon sunshine.

As always when at the races, I was wearing a jacket and tie, this time a lightweight, blue-checked sports coat and a yellow tie, but it was so hot that I took the jacket off and slung it over my shoulder.

I may have looked to anyone else as if I was relaxed and enjoying myself, but my mind was spinning as I tried to work out if there was anything I could do to stop Dream Filler from winning.

I convinced myself there was nothing.

I could hardly offer Tim Westlake, Dream Filler�s jockey, a backhander to lose the race on purpose � he would simply report me to the authorities, and then my world would begin to crumble around my ears. The penalties for attempting to fix a race, whether successful or not, were intentionally severe to deter anyone from trying it.

Never mind the potential criminal fraud conviction and likely prison sentence that would follow, the worldwide racing authorities would almost certainly ban me for life from being a syndicate manager and from ever setting foot on a racecourse or in a registered training stable anywhere in the world. Any mitigating pleas of threats or coercion would simply be swept aside.

No, I would just have to hope for the best that, on this occasion, Dream Filler would be one of the two-thirds of favourites that didn�t win.

But what about next time?

To my surprise, the syndicate members were quite laid back about the disqualification when I went to see them in the Owners and Trainers� Bar.

�We still had our moment of excitement,� one of them said with a laugh. �And it isn�t as if the prize money was very big anyway, especially not when you�ve divided it amongst the twenty of us.� He laughed again.

�It�s Owen Reynolds and the jockey who I feel sorry for,� said another. �It doesn�t seem fair on them to lose money.�

Personally, I didn�t know how to feel. Outwardly, I shared Owen�s frustration at the stewards� decision, but deep inside I was absolutely delighted.

�Dream Filler will lose.�

And ultimately, he had lost. In fact, he had been officially placed last.

I watched the second race on the TV in the bar and then decided that, as I had no further Victrix runners and also no intention of remaining to listen to the band, it was time to go home.

As I made my way out to the car park, there was still a steady stream of people arriving. With five more races on the card still to be run, plus the band playing afterwards, there was plenty more to enjoy, even if they had missed the most dramatic moment of the evening.

I tossed my blue-checked sports coat into the boot of the car.

As I did so, two flat grey pieces of metal slid out of its pockets � the two one-pound lead weights that I had removed from Dream Filler�s weight cloth as Owen had been fetching the parade-ring vet.

�Just a couple more,� the photographer said.

He took at least six.

�Now just move slightly to the right.�

I did.

�That�s fine. Now look at the horse.�

I did that too. Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

�Now at me.�

I turned my head, and he snapped another string of six shots.

I wondered if he would ever stop unless I told him to.

�I think that will have to do,� I said finally, my face sore from all that forced smiling when I didn�t feel particularly happy.

The young photographer looked crestfallen. But he must have taken over a hundred photos in the past ten minutes. Surely one of them must be good enough. Probably the first one he took.

I handed Potassium back to his stable lad, who had been waiting patiently to one side, out of camera shot.

Jerry Parker had also simply stood by and watched.

�He�s very keen,� Jerry said quietly to me as the photographer went to pack away his equipment. �He�ll learn. Now, where can we talk?�

�Owen said we could use his stable office.�

The interview lasted almost an hour, covering everything from the formation of Victrix Racing right up to the Derby win.

�Why do you think you have been so successful?� Jerry asked.

�Luck,� I replied. And he laughed.

�There�s nothing lucky about choosing the right horses to buy. That�s surely the key.�

�Indeed it is,� I agreed. �And I do spend an age studying the new crop of yearlings each year at the sales. I seem to have a good eye for what I want, and at the right price. I�m obviously not in the market for the most expensive ones, but I like to think that I can see a moderately priced horse with real potential, and one that my trainers can get the best out of.�

�That seems to have been the case with Potassium.�

I smiled at the memory of the Newmarket yearling sale when I�d bought him.

�The horse that went through the sale ring immediately ahead of Potassium had gone for over two million, and I think I got lucky with that. He seemed to slip through next almost unnoticed. I�d been prepared to go a little higher and was pleasantly surprised when he was knocked down to me for just a hundred thousand.�

We went on to discuss how I chose the trainers for each horse and my daily routine. Finally, he stopped and switched off the recording he�d been making on his phone.

�Thank you,� he said. �That was great. Very interesting. The feature should run in the paper either this Saturday or one day next week, depending on the space available with Royal Ascot.�

We stood up and moved towards the door of the office.

�So, tell me,� he said casually, as if as an afterthought, �what happened to Dream Filler on Saturday at Lingfield?�

�The whole thing was ridiculous,� I said. �He was clearly the best horse in the race, and the stewards placed him last.�

�Yes, I know,� he said. �But why did the jockey weigh in light?�

His journalistic instincts were in full force, hoping for some insight or revelation.

�Owen thinks they must have made a mistake when they weighed him out.�

�Don�t they have CCTV to check for that?�

�They said they did, but I never saw the footage. Tim Westlake claims he might have easily lost two pounds during the race. It was a very hot afternoon, and I saw his skull cap after the race. It was soaked with sweat, and of course none of that sweat gets weighed.�

�It still seems very odd to me,� Jerry said.

He looked me straight in the eyes, and I was worried that he could see right through them into my guilty conscience.

�It�s the first time it�s ever happened to a Victrix runner,� I said, turning away. �And I sincerely hope it�s the last.�

It certainly would be the last time that I�d do anything so stupid.

True to his instructions, Jimmy Ketch jumped Hameed quickly out of the stalls as the gates swung open, so much so that he was a length or more up after just the first two strides.

The field of twelve raced close to the far side running rail and was quite tightly bunched as they passed the five-furlong pole, with Hameed just still having his head in front.

At the halfway stage, four of them were beginning to drop back out of contention, having struggled with the fast early pace, but Hameed was still there, in the lead by a neck.

Having passed the two-furlong pole, Jimmy asked his mount for its final effort, pushing hard with his hands and heels, and giving the horse a gentle reminder down the shoulder with his whip. Hameed immediately responded, going a length and a half clear, but one of the others came back at him, and in spite of Jimmy�s best efforts, they were caught with just a few yards to go.

The judge called for a photograph to determine the winner, but from my position on the finish line, I could tell that Hameed had been beaten into second place.

In spite of not being sure beforehand if I�d wanted him to win or not, I now found that I was hugely disappointed that he hadn�t. And mostly, I realised, it was because I didn�t want Squeaky Voice believing that I had made the horse lose on purpose.

In spite of my early start, I was still caught up in some of the race-day traffic.

Horseracing has been staged at Ascot for over three hundred years, since Queen Anne first recognised the potential for building a racecourse on Ascot Heath. But I am quite sure that the original designers of the course, and of the surrounding roads, never envisaged that up to seventy-five thousand people would now descend on this part of Berkshire for each of the five June days of Royal Ascot.

Hence the traffic jams.

Over the years I had tried to find the perfect approach to the racecourse during the Royal meeting, investigating the very smallest of back roads in the hope of bypassing the queues. On a map, my route to the course would appear akin to spaghetti in its winding, but it meant that I would sit for only about ten minutes in traffic, just to get across the final roundabout, rather than the hour or more that some would wait if using their satnavs.

I parked my Jaguar in Car Park 2, across the road from the racecourse.

I checked again that my named Royal Enclosure badge was securely pinned to my morning coat�s left lapel.

I didn�t actually need to purchase a Royal Enclosure badge if I didn�t want to. As the syndicate manager of a runner in one of today�s races, I received a complimentary owner/trainer badge that gave me access to the Queen Anne Enclosure, which included the parade ring.

However, many of the people I arranged to meet were members of the Royal Enclosure, and I felt that it put me at a disadvantage to have to ask them to come out to join the lesser mortals in order to speak to me. Hence I believed the expense was justified, and I put it through the company accounts.

The Royal Enclosure was first established in 1822 when a separate area was designated for the sole use of King George IV, to entertain his personally invited guests. Since then the clientele has expanded somewhat, although everyone entitled to purchase Royal Enclosure tickets is still sent an annual stiff invitation card by the reigning monarch�s representative.

The Royal Enclosure has always had a very strict dress code.

Today, gentlemen have to wear black, grey, or navy-blue morning dress, a waistcoat, a tie (but not a bow tie), socks that cover the ankle, black shoes (but not sneakers), and a black or grey top hat.

Ladies must be in what Ascot calls �formal daywear,� which includes a dress or skirt that falls to just above the knee (or longer) and that has shoulder straps with a minimum width of one inch, or a trouser suit of matching material and colour. See-through, strapless, off-the-shoulder (one or both), and halter-neck dresses, as well as visible midriffs, are all definite no-nos. A hat (not a fascinator) that has a solid base with a diameter of at least four inches must also be worn at all times.

In addition, fancy dress, novelty, branded, or promotional clothing of any type is not permitted anywhere on the racecourse (unless you�re a jockey).

The dress code is rigorously enforced, not least by the Yeoman Prickers, the sovereign�s Ascot ceremonial escort, dressed in their forest-green velvet livery coats and top hats, both trimmed with gold braid, as they have been since they were first introduced by Queen Anne.

I collected my owner/trainer badge for the day plus my parade-ring pass for the fourth race from the collection desk, but I didn�t make my way directly through the turnstiles into the enclosures. Instead, I walked down the High Street on the outside the racecourse, and into the entrance to Car Park 1.

I had an invitation to a prerace picnic lunch in the most sought-after and exclusive picnic site on the planet.

�Come early,� Nick Spencer had said. �Claire and I will be setting up from about nine o�clock.�

I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to eleven. Five and a half hours to Potassium�s race time.

I walked down the rows of parking spaces looking for Nick Spencer. He had told me the row and number, and I had written it down, but I had carelessly left the piece of paper at home on the kitchen table.

Row G, I thought I remembered.

Parking berths in Car Park 1 for Royal Ascot were all numbered and reserved, with the spaces often passed down through the generations. The longer you or your family have had it, the closer you were to the racecourse entrance, and any spaces becoming available were as rare as snow in the Sahara.

And picnics here are not of the �rug on the beach� variety.

Oh no.

Folding dining tables and chairs were set up on the grass, with starched white tablecloths, flowers in vases, silver cutlery, best cut glass and fine china, and even the occasional candelabra. Lavish spreads of smoked or poached salmon, foie gras, cold sliced rare roast beef, coronation chicken, and multiple salads were on offer, accompanied by the finest wines and champagne, served in some cases by a butler wearing a tailcoat and white gloves.

It was definitely the Rolls Royce of all car-park picnics, with plenty of vehicles of that marque also on display, many of them vintage or classic models. It was as far removed from a wet winter�s afternoon racing at Bangor-on-Dee as was possible to imagine.

Unquestionably, it was a day to see � and to be seen.

I found Nick Spencer in Row G, or rather, he found me.

I was about to call his mobile when I heard him shouting.

�Chester, over here!�

I walked over to join him and saw that a few other members of the Potassium syndicate were amongst his guests. I looked at them and wondered if any of them were Squeaky Voice, but I more or less dismissed the thought almost as soon as I�d had it.

Why would any of them want Potassium to lose today?

A Class 6 handicap at Lingfield or a Class 4 Novice Stakes at Newbury were one thing � they were both only worth a few thousand pounds to the winner � but here, today, was quite another.

The prize money awarded to the victor of the St James�s Palace Stakes was over three hundred and sixty thousand pounds, to say nothing of how a triumph today would further enhance his value at auction as a future stallion.

Even with about ten per cent of that prize going to the winning trainer, and seven per cent to the winning jockey, plus the remainder being divided amongst the twelve syndicate members, it would still take a lot of betting on others, or laying of Potassium, to match the personal financial reward we would each acquire from our horse winning the race.

So how could Potassium losing it be a benefit to any of us?

�Come and meet my American guests,� Nick Spencer said, breaking my line of thought. He took me by the arm and steered me over to a group of three people I didn�t recognise, one man and two women.

�Chester Newton,� Nick said, �meet Herb and Harriet Farquhar, and...�

He tailed off.

�Toni Beckett,� said the lady on the left, the attractive one with the blonde shoulder-length hair, who I took to be in her early forties. �That�s Toni with an i.� She drawled it out, Southern style. �It�s short for Antonia.�

�Yes, of course,� Nick said, not seemingly embarrassed in the slightest by his forgetfulness.

I shook their hands.

�Chester, here, is our syndicate manager,� Nick said. �He keeps us all in order.� He laughed. �Herb owns a beautiful horse farm just outside Lexington, Kentucky.�

I nodded in approval. �I�ve been to the yearling sales in Lexington,� I said.

�Buy anything?� Herb asked sharply.

I smiled at him. �Not on that occasion, but I might in the future.�

�Chester has a great eye for a horse,� Nick said. �He bought Potassium at the sales for only a hundred thousand guineas, and look what�s happened to him since. He�s now worth millions.�

Thankfully, he didn�t mention some of the other horses I had bought for roughly the same money, which had then turned out to be fairly useless in comparison.

�What�s a guinea?� Toni asked.

�It�s an old British measure of money,� I said. �A little over a pound. Horses are still sold in guineas at Newmarket. On present exchange rates, a guinea is about one and a third American dollars.�

She raised her eyes to the heavens as if to imply that we were all crazy.

�Who�d like a drink?� Nick said, and he turned away to fetch a bottle.

Herb and Harriet drifted off after him, leaving me standing alone with Toni Beckett.

�Do you work on the horse farm too?� I asked.

�Oh no. I run the ticketing division at Keeneland Racetrack in Lexington. Mr and Mrs Spencer came over for our Spring Meet in April, and they stayed with Mr and Mrs Farquhar. I managed to get them all Clubhouse hospitality tickets for the races. This is a sort of thank-you for that.�

�Have you been to Ascot before?�

�Never. This is my first trip to England. I caught the red-eye over, Sunday night.�

�Are you here at the races all week?� I asked, noting that she had a five-day Royal Enclosure badge pinned to her yellow dress.

�Just for four days,� she said. �I have to fly home Saturday, to be back at work Monday morning.� She pulled a face.

�Will you be with Nick Spencer for all four days?�

�Oh no. Just today. Mr and Mrs Farquhar have invitations from other friends for the rest of the week, and I will just tag along with them. We�re in someone�s private suite tomorrow, and then guests of something called the Ascot Authority on Thursday. I can�t remember where we are on Friday.� She smiled. �I just know it�s going to be a busy week.�

Nick came back with two glasses of champagne.

�Here you are,� he said, handing one to each of us. �We will sit down to eat at a quarter to twelve. That will give us plenty of time to finish and get in to watch the Royal Procession at two o�clock.�

�Royal Procession?� Toni said.

�The King and other members of the royal family ride down the racecourse in open carriages, and then under the grandstand to the paddock. It�s very grand and most people go to watch.�

�Open carriages? Doesn�t anyone take a pot shot at them? If our president did that, he�d be killed inside five minutes.� She laughed. �The last one to ride in an open-topped car was shot dead in it, in Dallas back in the sixties.�

�But we all love our royal family,� Nick said.

�Yeah,� Toni replied. �But it only takes one nutcase with a gun.�

�I�m sure security is tighter than it looks,� I said. �Let�s have another drink.�

But she was right.

And what lengths would Squeaky Voice go to in order to prevent Potassium from winning?

Surely not that.

He�d probably have more chance if he shot the horse.

Lunch wound up at about a quarter past one after a spectacular feast, finished off with fresh strawberries and lashings of cream.

�I�m stuffed,� Toni said next to me. �I�m not sure I can even stand up.�

But she managed it.

�Now for the real reason we�re all here today,� I said. �The racing.�

But I was quite sure that some of the people around me in the car park had no intention of going into the enclosures to watch the horses. For them, the car-park picnic was the point of the day, and nothing else mattered. Indeed, the four hours or so it took to run the seven races was simply a chance for them to have a little snooze before the eating and drinking started again afterwards.

�Thank you so much for a fabulous lunch,� I said to Nick and Claire. �Nick, I�ll see you in the parade ring later. Claire, I�m so sorry I don�t have a paddock badge for you.�

�No problem,� she said. �But I�ll get in there somehow if we win.�

�You bet,� I said with a laugh. �I must dash now as I�ve arranged to meet Owen Reynolds at half past one.�

�Please come back after racing,� Nick said. �Either to celebrate a win or to drown our sorrows. We�ll be here until late either way.�

�That�s very kind,� I said. �Let�s wait and see how we get on.�

I turned to go.

�Can I come with you, Chester?� Toni asked suddenly. �I promise I won�t be a nuisance, and it would be nice to be shown around by someone who really knows what�s going on.�

I smiled at her. �I�d be delighted to show you around, but we�ll have to go right now.�

�I�m ready,� she said.

We both hurried over to the enclosure entrance, queued for a minute to get through, and then went on through the Royal Enclosure Gardens, past the temporary restaurants and London club members� tents and bars, towards the weighing room, where I had arranged to meet Owen.

I tried to take her along the horse walk under the bridge into the parade ring, but we were stopped by an official wearing a dark suit and a bowler hat, who asked to see our badges.

I showed him my owner/trainer badge.

�And for the lady?� he asked.

�She�s with me,� I said, trying to move on.

�Sorry, sir,� the man said firmly but politely, blocking the way. �If the lady has no badge, she cannot gain entry. You know the rules.�

�Yes. Sorry.�

The security was indeed tighter than it looked.

We retraced our steps and went up the steps onto the upper level. People were already beginning to congregate around the parade ring in anticipation of the arrival of the royal family, but I found a space on the rail, near the steps down to the weighing room.

�You stay here,� I said to Toni. �Don�t move or you will lose your place. I have to go and briefly see the trainer of our horse, but I will come back here to join you.�

�I�ll stay right here,� she said, gripping the rail with both hands.

I rushed down the steps, hoping that Owen wouldn�t be late.

I wondered why I had bothered to arrange to meet him.

But I knew the answer. Because meeting up with my trainers before racing was what I usually did. It made me feel comfortable to know that everything was in order with the horses and there was no panic going on over forgotten colours or broken tack. Indeed, I always kept a set of Victrix silks and a spare bridle in the boot of my car, just to be on the safe side.

Perhaps I could have phoned him instead, but calls were often not easy to make on a racecourse, especially one as crowded as it was today. Getting a signal could be difficult with so many people making calls, sending texts, and sharing photos all at the same time, and the background noise of people talking or music playing through the public address system was a problem, even if you were able to get through. Face to face was always better anyway � I was then able to read their body language, which often told me more than their words.

Thankfully, Owen was there ahead of me.

�Everything all right?� I asked.

�Absolutely fine,� he replied. He appeared very relaxed, which was an encouraging sign. �Jimmy has rides in the first two races, the second for me in the Coventry, so we�ll get an accurate assessment of the going. It�s officially �good,� which suits us perfectly.�

�Great,� I said. �I�ll see you later then. In the saddling boxes.�

I went back up the steps to where I�d left Toni. The whole place had filled up noticeably, even in the few minutes I�d been away, and I had some difficulty getting to her.

�I�ve been trying to save you some room,� she said as I squeezed in beside her. �But everyone keeps pushing forward.� She said it in a manner that implied that she could hardly believe that gentlemen in full morning dress and ladies in elegant frocks plus equally impressive millinery could act so much like a football crowd.

�Thank you anyway,� I said, personally quite enjoying the sensation of being pressed so close to her body.

I looked again at her Royal Enclosure badge with Mrs Antonia Beckett written on it in black ink.

�Is there a Mr Beckett?� I asked.

�Not anymore,� she replied, turning her head and looking straight at me. �Is there a Mrs Newton?�

�Yes,� I said. �There is.�

�Huh, there would be.� She looked away. �Goddammit. All the men I fancy these days are hitched.�

So she did fancy me.

I turned and faced forward, towards the parade ring, so that she wouldn�t see me blush beneath my top hat.

By the time two o�clock approached, there was not a single space to be found anywhere around the parade ring that provided any sort of view of where the Royal Procession would pass.

We watched on the big screen at the far end of the parade ring as, at two o�clock precisely, the first of four open-topped landau carriages made its way through the Golden Gate at the end of the straight mile.

�Which one is the King in?� Toni asked.

�The front one. The one that the four Windsor Greys are pulling. The other three are pulled by Cleveland Bays.�

�Do they come all the way from Windsor Castle in those?�

�They did once upon a time, but these days they come most of the way in a fleet of cars and then get into the carriages just a short distance from the racecourse.�

We watched on the TV as the procession made its sedate passage down the centre of the racetrack, with the horses trotting. Each carriage was driven by two postilion riders wearing their special Ascot livery of scarlet, purple, and gold jackets with black peaked riding hats, all inspired by the royal racing silks.

They were accompanied by red-uniformed outriders and followed by four mounted police officers. More police were stationed on foot every twenty yards or so down each side of the course.

�Who are the other people?� Toni asked.

�The Queen is sitting next to the King, and more members of the royal family are in the carriages behind. The other people with them are their guests. They will all have had lunch at Windsor Castle. It�s a massive honour to be invited to ride in the Royal Procession.�

�Have you ever?�

I laughed. �No. Nor likely to be. Although I have been in the royal box. I was invited in for a drink after one of my horses won a race here a few years ago.�

�So you�ve met the King?� She sounded impressed.

�I actually met him two weeks ago, at Epsom, when Potassium won the Derby. But I also met Queen Elizabeth the Second here at Ascot.�

I could see that she thought that even more impressive.

We watched the screen as the procession was shown slowing to a walk, and then it turned in to the tunnel under the grandstand that, later, the horses would use to access the track for the races. After another minute or so, the King�s carriage appeared at the end of the parade ring to our right, to rapturous applause from everyone around us, and then made a complete circuit of the ring, to give everyone a good view.

Finally, the carriage stopped just below where we were standing, and we were in the perfect position to see the King and Queen step down and from it, to be met by the waiting dignitaries.

The royal party disappeared from sight into the grandstand at the lower level, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. No one had taken a pot shot at them.

�Wow!� Toni said. �That was neat. I�ve never seen one of our presidents up that close. Does it all happen again in reverse when they leave?�

�No. They go back to Windsor Castle by car. But the procession will happen again tomorrow and every day until Saturday, although with different guests.�

Some of the crowd remained to watch the horses parade for the first race, but many of them dispersed to secure a viewing point in the grandstand.

�Come on,� I said. �Let�s go and find some seats.�

I boldly took her arm and steered her across the parade-ring concourse into the huge steel and glass grandstand. She didn�t object.

We took the long escalator up to the fourth level and went out to the seats at the front reserved for Royal Enclosure badge holders. Most were already full, but we managed to find a couple free, side by side, in the second row.

�The first race is called the Queen Anne Stakes,� I said to Toni. �It�s always the opening race of Royal Ascot and is named after Queen Anne, who started horseracing here back in 1711.�

�In 1711?� She was amazed. �But that was even before the United States was created.�

�It certainly was, and Ascot is not the oldest racecourse in England � not by a long way. That accolade belongs to Chester, where horseracing has been held continuously since 1539. That�s more than eighty years before the Mayflower sailed to America with the Pilgrim Fathers.�

�Chester knows all about Chester.� She laughed.

�I think my dad actually named me after Chester racecourse. He was mad about his racing. And especially about its history. When I was a kid, he used to quiz me all the time about all the racecourses � you know, their dates and such.� I sighed. �I suppose I should be grateful that I�m not called Epsom or Ascot.� I sighed again.

�When did he die?� Toni asked, correctly reading the cause of my sadness.

�Years ago,� I said.

I paused briefly, but then I decided to go on.

�I was only fifteen. He and my mother owned a boat on the River Thames. A cabin cruiser. They had it for years. When I was a boy, we used to holiday on it every summer, chugging up and down the river. I absolutely loved it, jumping off with the ropes and working the locks.� I smiled at the memory. �Then, one day, Mum and Dad decided to go out for a short jaunt when I was at school, and the boat blew up.�

�Blew up?�

�Yeah. An investigation later worked out that there had been a leak in the fuel system, which had caused a large petrol and air vapour mix to accumulate in the hull, under the floorboards. When my dad went to start the engine, the vapour exploded. Killed them both instantly.�

�Oh my God, how awful.� She had tears in her eyes.

�I�m sorry,� I said quickly. �I shouldn�t have told you. I didn�t mean to upset you.�

I really didn�t know why I had told her.

I never told anybody.

Georgina knew, of course, but no one else. I�d never even spoken about it in such detail to my own children, yet here I was telling the whole story to a complete stranger.

�I�m very grateful that you did tell me.� She put her hand gently on my arm. �So what then happened to you?�

�My grandparents collected me from school later that afternoon, and I went to live with them.�

�Do you have brothers or sisters?�

�No, just me.�

�I�m so sorry.� She stroked my arm.

�Thank you,� I said, putting my hand on hers to stop it moving. �But you don�t need to be. It was a long time ago.�

�Are your grandparents still alive?�

�Oh no. They�re also long gone. But they lived until I was in my early thirties. And they were both at my wedding.�

Now there were tears in my own eyes.

Thankfully, any further conversation on the matter was interrupted by the arrival of the twelve horses for the first race, appearing from the tunnel beneath the grandstand, their silks brightly contrasting with the lush green turf.

�Can we go have a bet?� Toni asked.

�We�ll lose our seats if we do. You can�t reserve them. Let�s have one on the second race.�

The Queen Anne Stakes was run over a mile, just like Potassium�s race, but in this case it was the straight mile, as opposed to being on the round course that would be used later. And this race was for horses aged four and over, of either sex, while Potassium�s was restricted to three-year-old colts.

The runners made their way slowly to the start, way off to our far right, close to where the King�s carriages had entered the course less than half an hour previously.

�In the States,� Toni said, �the horses always race past the grandstands from left to right as you look out, yet here they�ll be going the other way. It�s very confusing. Like all your stupid cars driving on the wrong side of the road.�

I laughed. �In this country, which way the horses go varies from racecourse to racecourse. At some they go one way, and some the other.�

�But I�m sure they go from left to right at Royal Ascot in the film My Fair Lady. I love that film. It�s one of my favourites. �Come on, Dover! Move your bloomin� arse!� �

She shouted it out loud and received some very strange looks from those around us, just as Audrey Hepburn had done in the film.

I was so enjoying being with Mrs Toni Beckett that I was forgetting all my other troubles, but that didn�t last for long.

The phone in my trouser pocket vibrated for a moment.

I took it out and read the home screen notification.

Remember, Potassium must lose. Fix it.

�What�s that?� Toni asked.

�Nothing. Just someone wishing me luck for later.�

I quickly stuffed the phone back into my pocket, hoping desperately that Toni hadn�t read the message.

Potassium looked magnificent as he was led around the pre-parade ring, his well-groomed coat shining brightly in the afternoon sunshine.

There were only eight runners in the St James�s Palace Stakes. So Owen had been right about Potassium�s supplementary entry frightening some of the competition out of the final declaration. The connections of the others must have decided to find an alternative race to run in rather than go up against the Derby winner.

Owen appeared with Jimmy Ketch�s saddle and waved the lad to bring Potassium over to one of the saddling boxes. I went to join them but stayed out of the box because Owen had brought his assistant with him to help.

I watched as the two of them went about their business, not forgetting to fit the weight cloth securely under the saddle. In this race, all the runners carried the same weight, nine stone two pounds, plus the allowance for the safety vest.

It was a true test to find the best three-year-old colt over a mile.

Satisfied that all was in order, and with the horse�s racecard number six showing clearly behind the saddle, Owen told his assistant and the stable lad to take Potassium through to the main parade ring while he walked on behind.

I went over to join him.

�All good?� I asked.

�Perfect,� he replied, totally relaxed.

And I found I was relaxed too. All that nervousness I�d experienced on Derby day at Epsom had not reappeared here. I realised it was because Potassium had already proven himself as a great horse. A win today would be the icing on the cake, but the cake was already assured, whatever the outcome. As long as he came home sound, I�d be happy.

Not that I didn�t want him to win.

I did. Desperately.

Most importantly, I didn�t again want Squeaky Voice believing that any loss was prearranged by me on purpose.

Nick Spencer was already in the parade ring, standing in a group with six other syndicate members, including Bill Parkinson, with me making up the maximum of eight paddock passes I had managed to acquire.

�All set?� I asked, joining them.

They all nodded, some of them showing obvious signs of nerves.

�Gentlemen, we are going to enjoy this,� I said. �Potassium has already done more than we could have asked of him. He�s an Epsom Derby winner. No one can ever take that away from him. If he wins today, then that would be great. If he doesn�t, well, he will have another day in another race.�

They all smiled at me, and some of the tenseness seemed to go out of their shoulders.

In a while, Jimmy Ketch joined us, wearing the Victrix silks.

�No time to waste in this race,� Owen said to him earnestly. �It�s only a mile, so we want a strong pace from the off, to sap the finish out of the sprinters. So jump him out of the stalls, and don�t be afraid of going immediately to the front. But don�t go mad. Keep enough in reserve to kick on again just before the two-furlong pole, after you�ve completed the turn into the final straight.�

�Yes, guv�nor,� Jimmy said.

The bell was rung, and Owen took Jimmy over to Potassium and gave him a leg up onto the horse�s back. There was now no more he could do.

As always when there was a large crowd, I stayed in the parade ring to watch the race on the large-screen TV. In the past, I had tried to get through to the owners� viewing steps, only to be thwarted by the crush from seeing the race at all.

What is known as the �round course� at Ascot is, in fact, triangular with rounded points, and the one-mile start was at the apex farthest from the grandstand, close to that part of the course known as Swinley Bottom.

Who Swinley was is a mystery lost in time, but the Bottom refers to the lowest part of the racecourse, some seventy-three feet below the finish line. It was the original site of a kennel established by Queen Anne to house the royal pack of hounds, known as the Buckhounds.

Potassium had been drawn in stall number two, and I watched on the big screen as he and the other seven runners were loaded without fuss.

�And they�re off in the St James�s Palace Stakes,� called the race commentator through the public address system as the gates snapped open.

Jimmy did as he was told and jumped Potassium out of the stalls fast, and he built a three-length lead in the first twenty strides. As they settled down, Potassium hugged the inside rail, going the shortest distance, and by the time he started the long turn into the finishing straight, he had extended his lead to five lengths, and the rest of the field were well spread out behind him, chasing hard.

Two of the other runners began to close round the turn, but Jimmy had indeed kept a little in reserve, and he kicked again as they straightened up, stretching the lead once more.

Within the last furlong, Potassium�s stride began to shorten as he tired, and the others started to gain on him. Then, in the last hundred yards or so, he began to paddle, with his head going up and down, but he had established enough of an advantage, and he managed to keep going, passing the winning post still a length to the good.

No need for a photograph this time. The result was clear for all to see.

�First number six,� called the judge.

That�s all I needed to hear.

The celebration in the parade ring around the winners unsaddling enclosure started even before the horse appeared, with most of the rest of the syndicate somehow having bypassed the men in bowler hats to gain entry, many of them with wives and partners in tow, all of them laughing and smiling.

It was moments like this that made up for all the disappointments, and in horseracing, there were lots of those.

Claire Spencer had made it in too, and she beamed at me.

After a few minutes, and accompanied by a fanfare from the trumpeters of the Household Cavalry, Potassium and Jimmy Ketch arrived through the tunnel into the ring and were led into the space reserved for the winner.

I went in there with them as everyone cheered.

Jimmy dismounted, removed his saddle, and then posed for press photographs with Owen, me, and the horse, with the other syndicate members waving madly in the background.

Jimmy then went off towards the weighing room, carrying his saddle and other equipment, including the weight cloth. Now all he had to do was weigh in at the same weight as he�d weighed out. Only then could the trophy presentation begin.

�Horses away,� shouted an official.

Potassium was led out, back towards the racecourse stables, now wearing his new rug with �Royal Ascot � Winner The St James�s Palace Stakes� emblazoned on both sides.

�Weighed in. Weighed in,� was announced over the public address, and there were no triple tones indicating a Stewards� Enquiry.

We had won. It was now official.

The forty-six-thousand-pound supplementary fee had been well spent.

As we waited for the presentation party to arrive, both Owen and Jimmy were interviewed by ITV racing. Then the cameras switched onto me.

�Well done, Chester,� said the interviewer. �So what�s next for Potassium?�

For the media, it was always about what�s next rather than what�s past.

�We�re not quite decided yet. He�s entered for both the Eclipse at Sandown and the Sussex Stakes at Goodwood, and we�re also looking at the International Stakes at York in August.�

�How about the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes back here next month?�

�He�s been entered for that too,� I said with a smile. �A multitude of riches. But we�ll have to see how he recovers after today.�

The presentation party was now ready, and I collected the St James�s Palace Stakes perpetual silver trophy from a senior member of the royal family on behalf of the winning syndicate, while Owen received a silver cup, and Jimmy a silver photo frame.

As we stood on the presentation platform for yet more press photographs, I could see someone in a yellow dress waving wildly from the viewing steps to my left.

It was Toni Beckett.

I waved back, smiling broadly.

I didn�t go home. Instead, I pulled up opposite the Raj Tandoori.

I went and banged on the front door of the flat above, but there was no answer. So I went back to the car and waited and waited and waited.

Georgina had called me on my phone�s hands-free system as I�d been passing Reading.

�Dad and I watched the race together,� she said. �It was so exciting. And we watched your interview afterwards. He is so pleased for you.�

�Thanks,� I said. �How is he doing today?�

�Much the same. Mum�s a bit better now she�s been able to have a couple of nights� proper sleep after I moved her into the spare room. I�ve gone back into the bed I slept in before we were married. It feels very strange. And Mum keeps asking me what she will do if he dies, or rather when he dies.�

Not come to live with us, I hoped.

But Harrogate was a very long way away from south Oxfordshire, and after the early death of her sister, Georgina was their only child left.

A couple of years ago, we had investigated some sheltered-living bungalows in our village and had even put her parents� name down for one, but there was a long waiting list � waiting for the current residents to die off.

Getting old was no fun, but it was probably better than the alternative.

�Are you going to Ascot again tomorrow?� Georgina asked.

�Every day,� I replied. �We have more runners, one on Thursday and another on Saturday, but I don�t really expect those two to win. I�m running them more because the syndicates are desperate for Royal Ascot tickets.�

�I can�t think of anything worse.�

�But you used to love to go.�

�No, I didn�t. I only went because you wanted me to. It was always too damned hot � or raining � and I hated wearing all those bloody hats, and as for the shoes! They always hurt like hell by mid-morning.�

I was surprised by her forcefulness.

�Well, you should be thankful you�re in Harrogate then,� I said. �It was hot and crowded at Ascot today, and according to the forecast, it will be even hotter tomorrow and again on Thursday, for the Gold Cup.�

�You�re welcome to it.�

Her attitude distressed me.

I wondered if Georgina was also sensing that our marriage was beginning to crumble around our ears. Did she mind? Or might it be a relief to her too?

What was it she really wanted from her life? Was my presence a necessity or a luxury? Or both?

Or neither?

And what did I want from my life?

Could we go back to how it had been, or should we go forward into uncharted waters, either together or separately?

All I knew was that something had to change. I didn�t want to go on as we had been recently, not for the next twenty-five years or so.

�Was it something I said?�

I turned around.

Today, Toni Beckett was in blue � blue dress and blue hat.

�Did you bring a trunk load of hats?� I asked, smiling.

�Only two. I�m back in the yellow again tomorrow. So what happened to you? I was all ready to party in the car park last night, but you weren�t there.�

�I had to go home. How was tea with the ambassador?�

�Boring. There was another man there with him, who leered at me all the time. It was creepy.�

�I�ll try and remember not to leer.�

�You can leer at me as much as you like,� she said, looking me straight in the eyes.

�So where are you today?� I asked, trying to change the subject.

�Where would you like me to be?�

We were standing on the parade-ring concourse, just outside the entrance to the grandstand, and I instinctively turned and looked around me, to make sure that no one I knew had seen or overheard this overtly flirtatious encounter between us, occurring in the most public place on Ascot racecourse.

I turned back to face her.

�I meant, which box are you in today?�

She looked down at the triangular badge pinned to her dress, above the Royal Enclosure one.

�Box 522,� she said.

�That�ll be nice. The views from the private boxes are spectacular, especially from up on the fifth level.�

�I�d rather be having a spectacular view of the rest of you,� she said.

I blushed. �Stop it.�

�Why? It�s only a bit of fun. Although I mean it. Come on � let�s go and have some champagne. I don�t have to be at the box until twelve-thirty.�

I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to midday, and I had made no appointments until after the first race.

�Okay,� I said.

I led her away from the Royal Enclosure, down some steps to the Mo�t & Chandon Champagne Bar, situated near the bandstand. Maybe because I felt there would be less likelihood of running into anyone I knew down there.

�Get a bottle,� Toni said as I surveyed the prices.

�I have to drive later,� I said.

�Boring!�

I bought a bottle of Brut Imperial for over a hundred quid, but it did come ready opened, and in a see-through acrylic Mo�t & Chandon ice bucket � but that had to go back to redeem the twenty-pound deposit.

We found a couple of spare seats under a sun umbrella.

�Who are your hosts today?� I asked after I had poured two glasses.

�I don�t know. Some rich cronies of the Farquhars.�

�And they don�t mind that you tag along?�

�Don�t seem to. Mr and Mrs Farquhar have sorted out this whole trip for me. It�s really kind of them. But I do lots for them back home. They regularly need clubhouse hospitality for their guests at Keeneland, and I fix it for them, at a price of course. They have a reserved box in the grandstand, but our boxes aren�t like the ones here. We call those suites. For us, a box is just a small railed-off area with six or eight chairs in it. There�s no privacy. And the Farquhars always want a private suite with food and wines when they have visitors.�

�You�re clearly a useful person to know.�

�You can bet on it,� she said with a laugh. �And they will expect more of the same from me in the future after this little jaunt.�

She took another sip of champagne.

�You should come over for our Fall Meet in October,� she said. �I�ll sort you out properly.�

I was quite certain she would.

�And we also have the Breeders� Cup World Championship weekend at Keeneland this year.�

�Do you, indeed?�

Running Potassium in the International Stakes at York in August suddenly seemed much more attractive. It was one of their �win and you�re in� qualifiers for the Breeders� Cup Classic. So a win there would secure him a guaranteed berth in the race.

�Tell me more about you,� she said.

�Not much to tell, really,� I replied. �I�m a workaholic who never seems to take a day off. Horseracing in this country is a seven-day-a-week activity. Apart from Christmas Day and the two days beforehand, there are at least two race meetings in this country every single day of the year. On most days, there are four or five, and on some, as many as eight or nine. There are over fourteen hundred different fixtures over the whole year.�

She stared at me in amazement.

�Not that they�re all like this,� I said, waving my hands around at the grandeur of Royal Ascot. �There�ll be over sixty thousand people here tomorrow for the Gold Cup, but there may be fewer than a hundred at a wet January evening meeting at Wolverhampton.�

�So why do they bother to hold it?� she asked.

�For the betting shops and the online bookmaking sites. Racing is kept afloat by people gambling on it, and most of them don�t go anywhere near the actual racecourses. The government collects a portion of all bookmakers� profits through something called the Horserace Betting Levy. And that money is used to keep racing going.�

�But you must do something to relax,� she said. �Do you have any hobbies?�

Did I? Not really. Horseracing was my hobby as well as my work. I didn�t actually need to be here at Ascot today, but I had chosen to be so.

�Sorry,� I said, shaking my head. �It�s official. I am totally boring.�

�I could change that,� she said. �How about another drink later? Maybe in the car park or ... back at my hotel?�

�You�re very forward,� I said.

She laughed. �I have to be. I�m only here for six nights, and three of them have gone already.�

�What about the Farquhars?�

�They�re out to the theatre in London this evening, and I wasn�t invited.�

How convenient, I thought.

�So are they leaving here early?� I asked.

�They have a driver collecting them at quarter of six.�

The last race was not until ten past six, so they should avoid the worst of the traffic, but it would still be tight if their show started at seven-thirty.

�Are you leaving with them?�

I wondered what the hell I was doing, asking such a leading question.

�No. The Farquhars have kindly arranged for me to have my own car back to my hotel, as they are going direct from here to the theatre. I just have to call my driver forty minutes before I need him.�

She smiled at me. She seemed to have everything perfectly worked out.

�I�m sorry,� I said, bursting her balloon, �but I don�t think it�s a good idea.�

�Damn men!� she said with feeling. �I spend half my life fighting most of them off me because I don�t want them, and now, when I absolutely do want one, he has a fit of conscience.�

�I�m a married man.�

�So what? Tell your wife you�ve met an important client at the races, and you will be going to dinner with them in London tonight, so you might as well stay over in a hotel. And you�ll be home tomorrow � or on Friday � or Saturday.�

She smiled at me once again.

And Georgina herself wouldn�t be home until at least Saturday.

Toni�s driver dropped us outside her hotel in Kensington High Street.

�I�ve never done anything like this before,� I said nervously as we walked into the lobby, my top hat in my right hand.

�It�ll be quite easy,� Toni said, taking my left. �We go up to my room, open the bottle of champagne from the mini bar, get undressed, and then we go to bed. Then we�ll have some dinner, and later on, we go to bed again.�

How could any man say no to that?

We took the lift to the eighth floor and went along the corridor to room 807.

�Which is Herb and Harriet�s room?� I asked, almost in a whisper in case they could somehow hear me.

�Don�t be silly,� Toni said, laughing. �They�re not staying here. They�re at the Peninsula. They pick me up on the way past in the morning.�

We went into her room. It had one large double bed, a desk and a chair, plus a sofa by the window, but it was the view through that window over the trees of Kensington Gardens towards the city that was the true five-star experience.

�Open the champagne,� Toni said, pointing at the mini bar and tossing her blue hat onto the desk. �I�ll be out in a moment.�

She went into the bathroom while I took off my coat and laid it on the bed. I then took the bottle from the fridge and fumbled with the wire over the cork, my hands shaking.

Finally it popped, and I poured two glasses.

�Do you want yours in there?� I asked.

She didn�t answer. Instead, the bathroom door opened, and she came out.

She was stark naked.

�What do you think?� she asked, posing with her arms held up. �Not bad for forty-six. I�ve still got firm, pointed tits and a flat belly.�

Not bad at all, I thought.

I stood there with the champagne glasses still in my hands as she came over and stood close to me. She undid the buttons on the front of my waistcoat and carefully removed it without me spilling a drop.

She pulled my braces to the sides, lifting them over the glasses.

Then she went down on her knees and began to unfasten the front of my trousers.

�Why do these pants have buttons, not a zip,� she said, looking up at my face.

�All morning-dress trousers have buttons,� I said breathlessly, looking down at her face and at the further delights beyond. �I don�t know why.�

Did I care?

She finished undoing everything, and the trousers fell down to the floor around my ankles.

�I love a man in boxers,� she said. �Or rather, I love a man out of boxers.�

She tucked her thumbs over the elastic waistband and pulled them sharply down to join the trousers. It caused a shiver to run through my whole body.

�I�m spilling these,� I said in a sort of croak.

She stood up, took the glasses, drank from one, then put them both on the bedside table. Then she unbuttoned and removed my shirt.

Next, she lay down on the bed, on her back, with her knees drawn up and spread wide apart.

�Take me now,� she said.

So I did.

�Come back to bed,� Toni said when I�d finished making my calls to the trainers.

�What time are the Farquhars picking you up?�

�Ten o�clock.�

I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to nine.

�How long do you need to get ready,� I asked.

�Half an hour.�

�So we have forty-five minutes to play with. Shall I order us some food?�

�Don�t be silly,� she said, tapping the bed as encouragement for me to lie down. �I�m eating you for breakfast.�

Just as his trainer, Richie Mackenzie, had predicted earlier, Cherwell Edge did surprise me.

Not that he won, or even came close to winning, but he kept on well over the last couple of furlongs to finish a very creditable fourth of the sixteen runners, collecting over eight thousand pounds in prize money.

Toni and I watched the race from the seats on level four.

�So,� she said as the horses crossed the finish line, �can I come home with you tonight?�

Of course, I should say �no.�

There were so many reasons why it was not a good idea.

What if someone saw us leaving the racecourse together?

Or our neighbours, Victoria or Brian Perry, popped around this evening � as they often did just for a chat or to borrow some sugar or milk?

Or Amanda decided to come home again?

Or the hundred other things I could think of that would give me away?

I turned in my seat to look at Toni.

�All right,� I said.

But I could never have imagined what actually did happen.

I collected my clothes from the sofa and went upstairs. Toni came up with me, and while I dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, she had a wander around the bedrooms.

The house was basically rectangular, with a bedroom in each corner. There were also two bathrooms, built between the bedrooms on each long side. One was en suite to the master, and the other opened onto the landing, and was shared between the other three bedrooms.

�So what are you going to do?� Toni asked.

�About what?�

�Your daughter, of course. You need to call the cops.�

Did I?

�She�s not been missing for long enough,� I said. �They won�t do anything.�

�You need to call them anyway.�

�Let�s see if she turns up here first.�

Although I couldn�t think how she could get here. I knew that five pounds wasn�t enough to pay for a taxi all the way from Didcot. There were no buses in the evenings, and she surely wouldn�t walk three and a half miles in flip-flops.

I didn�t want to let my mind settle on the most obvious conclusion � that she�d been abducted again by Squeaky Voice.

�I think I ought to go out and look for her,� I said.

�But where?�

�I don�t know.� I could feel the panic rising in my throat, just as it had on Tuesday after I�d received the Do not defy me text message. �I just don�t feel I can sit here doing nothing.�

�How about finding your son�s passport?� Toni said.

�That will have to wait.�

�No. Do it now. Then it�ll be done, and it will also occupy your mind for a while to stop you panicking about your daughter. In the meantime, she might show up, either here or back with her boyfriend. What�s his name?�

�Darren,� I said. �And I don�t like him.�

She laughed. �No father ever likes his daughter�s boyfriend. It�s a given.�

�But Darren is very controlling, and he also gives her drugs. If Amanda has gone missing because she�s run away from him, I�d be delighted.�

�There you are, then,� Toni said. �Maybe it�s a good thing.�

But deep down, I knew it wasn�t.

Toni found some spaghetti in a kitchen cupboard, plus some pasta sauce in the fridge, and set about making us a late supper while I went upstairs to put the things back into James�s desk.

I put his middle drawer on the bed and put back into it all the stuff I had tipped out of it. Next I did the bottom drawer.

I put everything back just as I�d found it. I briefly flicked through the notebooks, but they were just full of equations and calculations, and a few lists, presumably something to do with his university maths course.

�It�s ready,� Toni called from downstairs.

�Coming,� I shouted back.

I went down and we both sat at the kitchen table, eating spaghetti and drinking the rest of the red wine.

�So what now?� Toni asked as she laid down her fork.

�We wait. There�s nothing else we can do. I�ve told the police, but they said they won�t do anything until the morning at the earliest. If she has been kidnapped, I expect that there will be some sort of ransom demand.�

�Why aren�t your cops taking it more seriously?� she asked. �Back home, this would be a big deal.�

�I suspect it�s because she was taken before and released unharmed. And they also seem to think that she might have gone missing on purpose.�

�Did they also think that last time?�

�I fear they did,� I said. �But I don�t know why. She was injected with ketamine and went missing from her own birthday party, when all her friends were here. She turned up three hours later, nine miles away, in a highly agitated state, and she couldn�t have walked that far in the high heels she was wearing. She could hardly stand up in them.�

�So how come the cops thought she disappeared on purpose?�

�Because she wasn�t raped, and there was no ransom demand.�

At least, I hadn�t told them of one.

�But even so,� Toni said, clearly quite angry on my behalf, �they should get a search party out now, looking for her.�

�They don�t have the manpower to search for everyone. I was told by a policeman that a person goes missing in this country every ninety seconds.�

�And he�s getting pretty fed up with it,� she said, laughing at her own joke.

I smiled, just. It might have been funny under different circumstances.

�Sorry,� Toni said.

My phone rang loudly into the silence.

I looked down at it lying on the table. Georgina was the name on the screen.

I picked up the phone and walked out of the kitchen into the sitting room, leaving Toni alone at the kitchen table. I closed the doors so she couldn�t hear my conversation.

�Hello,� I said, answering.

�I�ve been waiting for you to call me,� Georgina said with a hint of irritation. �I�m going to bed now.�

�Sorry. I fell asleep in front of the television. It was such a hot day at Ascot today. I�m totally exhausted.�

�How are things at home?� she asked.

What could I say? �Fine, except your daughter has been kidnapped again, and I�ve just been screwing an American blonde on the rug in the sitting room?�

�All good,� I said. �How�s your father?�

�Remarkable, considering what he was like when I arrived. The new carers started today, and amazingly, he seemed to like them. He was even flirting with the girl.�

�When are you coming home?� I asked.

�Are you missing me?�

�Of course.�

�I think I should be here for the carers tomorrow, and maybe on Saturday as well. Mum seems a little better and slightly more positive, but it�s hard for her, and I hate them being so far away. We�ve discussed about Dad going into a home, but Mum�s not very happy. I think it�s mostly because she doesn�t want to be left alone in this house. She says she�ll look after him for as long as she can. And the carers coming in every day will make a big difference.�

�You stay there for as long as you need to,� I said.

�I�ll look up the trains for Sunday,� Georgina said. �I�ll have to come home soon because I�m running out of my medication.�

�Sunday will be fine. I�ll pick you up from the station.�

My phone beeped and showed that I had another incoming call, but there was no indication of who was trying to reach me.

�I�ve got a call waiting,� I said. �I�ll speak to you in the morning.�

�Okay,� Georgina replied. �Night, night.�

She hung up and, with a degree of trepidation, I touched the �Accept� button on my phone�s screen.

�I told you it was easy to take your daughter,� said the squeaky voice.

Toni and I spent the night together in the double bed in the guest room, but somewhat embarrassingly, my enthusiasm for more sex had evaporated. Even if my mind had been willing, my body wasn�t.

Maybe it was because I had so much else going on in my head.

Having intercourse with Toni in the sitting room of this house, and also lying to my wife about having fallen asleep in front of the television, suddenly made me feel incredibly guilty.

�I�m sorry,� I said.

�That�s all right,� Toni said. �We�ll have another try in the morning.�

She seemed to go straight to sleep while I lay awake in the dark for ages, trying to sort other things out.

Had I finally rid myself of Squeaky Voice?

I liked to think so, but I wasn�t so sure.

Maybe he would try a different tactic.

So far, he hadn�t actually harmed anybody � not physically anyway � apart from a single injection into Amanda�s neck. I had called his bluff about killing her, but that didn�t mean he couldn�t now threaten to hurt her, maybe cut her face or throw something corrosive over her, or over Georgina, or even over James or me.

How ruthless was he? And would he react badly to my determination not to do as he asked?

Was it now time for me to try harder to find out who he was?

But how?

I had to start by talking to Amanda, to find out if there was some clue she had found out, even if she didn�t realise it, and use it to build a trap.

Malcolm Galbraith was at the Owners and Trainers� Bar ahead of me.

�What are you having?� he asked as I arrived. �A pint?�

He held up his own.

�No, thanks. Just some fizzy water. I have to drive later.�

And I hadn�t got out of Jim Green�s box without having a second large glass of red wine thrust into my hand, even though I�d hardly touched it.

The two-mile five-furlong Summer Plate Trial Handicap Chase was the feature race of the day at Market Rasen.

As its name suggested, this race was a trial for the Summer Plate Handicap Chase, the premier steeplechase of the summer months, which would be run at the same course in four weeks� time. A good showing in today�s trial might encourage Malcolm and me to enter Casillero for the main one.

In the past, jump racing had always been a winter sport while flat racing took place in the summer, but both now occur pretty much throughout the year.

When I was a child, the thought of there being a jumps fixture on the same day as Royal Ascot would have been laughable, yet this year, three of the five days were now shared with a jump meeting somewhere in the country.

�How do you think Cassy will go?� I asked Malcolm.

�Fair to middling,� he replied.

Malcolm was never one to be overly confident about any of his horses� chances. �Fair to middling� was about as good as I could have expected, and was certainly a step up from his other favourite prediction: �Should get round.�

Market Rasen is a slightly undulating, right-handed, ten-furlong oval track, with sharp bends at either end. There are four fences in the back stretch, two of which are open ditches, and three more plain fences in the home straight.

The two-mile five-furlong start is in front of the grandstands, and the ten runners in this race therefore had to negotiate two complete circuits of the course, jumping each of the seven fences twice, making fourteen in total.

Malcolm and I watched on one of the television screens as the horses circled before being called into line by the starter.

Unlike in flat racing, where starting stalls are used, jump races are started behind a tape, and there is no draw for starting position. When the starter was satisfied that all were ready, he lowered his flag and released the tape, and �They�re off!�

The early pace was rather pedestrian, and the group of ten were bunched closely together around the first bend, with Casillero running in fifth or sixth. They all negotiated the first plain fence in the back straight with no problem. Next up was an open ditch, but the fences at Market Rasen are considered fairly easy, and it also caused no concerns.

Only when the group turned into the home straight for the first time, did the tempo really pick up, and that was because Casillero�s jockey took the initiative and pushed her to the front.

�About bloody time,� Malcolm said under his breath. �I told him not to let it go too slow for too long. Cassy is well placed in the handicap, and we need to make sure that lower weight has its full effect.�

The injection of pace quickly spread out the field such that there were twenty lengths or more from first to last as they made their way along the back straight for the second and last time.

Casillero was still in front as they turned for home, but she hadn�t shaken off two of the others, and one of those came past her going into the last fence, in spite of it carrying six pounds more on its back.

�Second,� Malcolm said as they crossed the finish line. �Not too bad, I suppose.�

But I could tell he was disappointed.

�They went too slow on that first circuit,� he said. �I should have been there.�

�Don�t beat yourself up,� I said. �Second is good. I think we should enter her for the Summer Plate next month.�

�It�s quite a step up,� Malcolm said, always being cautious. �Today�s trial was only rated as a Class 3 contest. The Plate itself is a Class 1.�

�I think we should still give it a go. Especially if she remains favourably handicapped.�

I had to be careful, though. Consistently aiming a fairly average horse too high could easily produce a string of mediocre results. No syndicate member would prefer their horse to be fourth or fifth out of twelve runners in a Class 1 contest, when they could have won at Class 4.

In horseracing, winning was everything, even if the prize money was small. And my number-one priority was keeping my syndicate members happy, to keep them coming back to me, year on year.

�Are you here tomorrow?� I asked Malcolm. �Victrix has a four-year-old called Wayleave running in the Wokingham.�

He laughed. �Well, good luck with that,� he said. �I�m taking a rare day off from the gee-gees tomorrow. I�m going to a wedding. Mind you, I�ll still be dressed up like this.� He waved up and down at his morning dress. �Barbara�s nephew is getting married in Bath.�

�Aren�t you wearing a kilt?�

He looked at me. �You�d do well to mind your language.� He laughed again. �Actually, I do have a kilt somewhere, but the waistband is a good eight inches too short for me these days. Can�t imagine why. It must have shrunk in the wash.�

He took another large swig of beer, and I reckoned I knew the real culprit.

My phone rang.

I looked at it: No Caller ID.

Oh God, I thought. Not again.

�I�d better take this,� I said to Malcolm, turning and walking away from him.

�What the bloody hell do you want?� I said, answering the call.

�I just wanted to know if you liked my piece about you in the Post yesterday,� said a normal voice.

�Oh, Jerry,� I replied. �I�m so sorry � I thought you were someone else.�

�I should hope so.�

�The piece was lovely, thank you. Although I wasn�t so happy with your front-page article.�

�I�m sure. And I have more news on that. I�ve managed to acquire a copy of the CCTV footage from the Lingfield weighing room from that day, and it clearly shows that Tim Westlake weighed out correctly at nine stone seven pounds. So Owen Reynolds assertion that they must have made a mistake weighing him out is definitely not correct.�

�So what are you going to do about it?� I asked, trying hard to keep the worry out of my voice.

�Not much I can do,� he said. �I�ve asked the online gambling companies, in particular the exchanges, to tell me if there was any unusual betting recorded on that race, especially any evidence of anyone taking large number of lays on Dream Filler or offering better lay odds than everyone else. I�m still waiting to hear. The lawyers won�t let me accuse anyone without cast-iron proof, and short of searching people�s houses, I won�t get that.�

�You can search my house, if you like.�

He laughed. �You had nothing to gain by fixing the race.�

�But why do you clearly think that Owen did?�

�Owen is a gambler,� he said. �Everyone knows that. But you�re not.�

That�s what he thought.

Saturday morning dawned to grey skies and heavy rain. The hot, dry spell had definitely ended, with a weather front moving in from the Atlantic, and rain was forecast for the rest of the afternoon.

I thought about not bothering to go to the races, but Victrix had a runner, and I�d told both the trainer and the syndicate members that I�d be there.

I made my usual morning calls to all the trainers, discussing entries for the following week and making plans for the upcoming racing festivals at Newmarket, Goodwood, and York, for which some entries closed early.

Just after I finished the last of the calls, my phone rang.

No Caller ID.

I wondered if it was Jerry Parker again.

It wasn�t.

�Chester Newton?� said the squeaky voice.

�Leave my wife alone,� I shouted at him down the phone.

�Then do as you�re told. Wayleave will lose today.�

�Get lost.�

I hung up.

Wayleave would probably lose anyway, whatever I did. There were twenty-nine declared runners for the Wokingham Stakes, a six-furlong handicap dash, and this particular race had a reputation for being a bit of a lottery.

But how did Squeaky Voice get Georgina�s mobile number?

My number, yes � it was available on the Victrix website � but hers?

I had a restless night, tossing and turning and only sleeping in short snatches.

My mind was too active to allow me to rest, in spite of the wine.

At half past four, after a particularly long session awake, I finally got up, put on my dressing gown, and went downstairs.

With the summer solstice being this week, the sky was light even at this early hour, and the sun would be up within the next fifteen minutes.

I made myself a coffee in the kitchen and took it through to my office.

It was too early to call the trainers, even those whose first lots went out soon after five o�clock during the mid-summer months. But I hadn�t come down to use the phone anyway, but to use my computer.

I spent the next hour or so searching through various social media sites and other web pages.

Then I looked up betting systems.

I thought I knew everything there was to know about gambling on horseracing, but I was wrong, very wrong.

Sure, I knew the basics.

I knew you could simply bet on a horse to win, or to place � usually meaning to finish in the first three � and that you could group those two bets together to make an each-way wager.

You can place those bets either with a bookmaker or on the Tote, and the term bookmaker here includes all the high-street betting shops and their websites as well as the men and women standing shouting the odds at the racecourses.

Bookmakers, as the name suggests, make a �book� on each race. In the past, the book was what the bets were recorded in, by hand, but nowadays they are typed into a computer. But the bookmaker still has to decide the fixed-price odds he is offering on each horse in the race.

If a horse is thought to have a high probability of winning, the bookmaker will choose to offer only short odds, say at two-to-one, whereas if the horse is considered to have little chance, the offered odds will be longer, maybe at twenty-to-one or even higher.

The longer odds are to tempt people to back the outsider.

As the time of the race nears, the bookmaker may vary his offered odds either up or down. In this way he regulates how much is bet with him on each horse, and that allows him to calculate his liability for every possible outcome.

The Tote, however, is not a bookmaker. It is a �parimutuel� or �pool� betting system. All the money that is bet �to win� on all the horses in a race is added together into the pool. The Tote then deducts a percentage to cover its costs and profit. The remainder is then divided by the number of winning tickets to determine the payout. So no one �decides� the Tote odds, they depend solely on how many people have backed each horse.

Racetracks in the United States operate parimutuel systems as their only form of gambling. Bookmakers are not allowed.

But there are all sorts of other bets you can make too. Exactas (or trifectas) are where you have to select two (or three) horses to finish first and second (or first, second, and third), and in the correct order.

Then there are also coupled bets for multiple horses in different races.

Doubles, trebles, and other multi-race accumulators require that all the chosen horses must win for the bet to succeed. If any one of them doesn�t win, you lose your stake.

Whereas the chances of that happening may seem small, the returns can be huge. And much stranger things than that do happen in racing. Who could have imagined that Frankie Dettori would ride all seven winners in one afternoon at Ascot? But he did � Frankie�s Magnificent Seven � and the cumulative starting price of all seven was more than twenty-five-thousand-to-one.

And then there are �special� accumulators like the Tote Jackpot or the Scoop6. They are both six-fold accumulators � you have to pick the winners of six races in one day to win � but with a major difference. If no one wins it on any given day, the prize pot rolls over until the next day, and so on, building and building until somebody does win it.

The largest ever Tote Jackpot payout was almost one and a half million pounds to a single one-pound ticket, and in 2014, after an unprecedented twelve weeks of Scoop6 rollovers, eight lucky punters shared nearly eleven million.

All those bets were fairly straightforward. I understood all of them.

But I found there were so many other ways to lose your shirt, or make your fortune, which I was only vaguely aware of.

I�d heard of people placing a Yankee or a Lucky 15, but I didn�t really know what they were. So I looked them up on the internet. They were both multiple-bet combinations on various horses in separate races. And there were many other multi-bet variations too, all of them with exotic names such as Trixie, Heinz, or Goliath.

But the development of internet gambling has opened a whole raft of new and unconventional ways to stake your cash.

The creation of the �betting exchange� is the most obvious new addition, where anyone and everyone can now act as the bookmaker, taking bets from other people by �laying� a horse, which is essentially betting that the horse will lose.

In recent years, this has allowed the emergence of something called �matched betting,� where you place two bets on opposing outcomes.

For example, you bet on a horse to win with a bookmaker and then lay it to lose on an exchange. Clearly, the horse will either win the race or lose it � there is no other possible outcome � so one of your bets will definitely win, and the other one will surely lose.

Now, at first glance this might seem rather pointless, especially if the odds are the same for both. You would end up with no loss, but also no profit.

However, if there is a slight difference in the odds, such that the bookmaker is offering a fractionally higher price than you lay on the exchange, you can turn this variation to your benefit. Provided you calculate the relative stakes correctly, if the horse wins, you end up with a profit, and if it loses, you�re even.

It�s a �no loss� bet with only an upside.

It is as close to a guaranteed return as you can get while betting on horses, as long as you do your sums right and also remember to factor in the small commission charged by the exchanges.

In financial circles it is known as arbitrage and involves buying and selling the same shares simultaneously at slightly differing prices on separate stock markets, in order to make a profit.

But such opportunities are normally few and far between.

However, the gambling business is very competitive, and almost all bookmakers, and even some of the exchanges, are always making offers of free bets to encourage new customers to open an account � �Bet �10 and get �30 in free bets� � or to make existing customers bet more.

These �free� bets make matched betting much more attractive.

But bookmakers aren�t stupid � far from it. If they believe you are matched betting, and winning, they stop offering you any sort of promotion, and if you then go on winning, they will close your accounts.

In effect, all bookmakers, and all casinos for that matter, will only go on taking bets from people who lose. For all their seeming joy at the occasional big winner, they don�t like those who do it all the time, and they won�t continue to do business with them.

I leaned back in my chair and stretched.

My brain hurt from concentrating so much.

But things were beginning to crystallize in there too.

By now, it was too late to go back to bed, so I made myself another coffee, swallowed a couple of ibuprofen tablets, and toasted the last remaining slice of bread, which I found hiding in a dark corner at the back of the fridge.

I decided I must go to the supermarket and stock up on some essential items before Georgina returned. I didn�t want to give her the pleasure of thinking that I was totally useless at looking after myself when she was away.

After a while, I went back to my office and called the Victrix trainers.

Royal Ascot may be over for another year, but racing across Great Britain went on regardless.

There were three race meetings today, four tomorrow and Tuesday, and five or six each day for the rest of the week � thirty-three meetings in total over the seven days, with over two hundred separate races involving nearly two thousand different horses.

My target was that at least six of those horses should be owned by Victrix syndicates, and preferably more, because I had learned over the past twenty-four years that, more than anything, my syndicate members wanted their horses to race, and to race often, rather than be standing idle in their stables at home.

By the time I had finished my calls to the trainers, and I�d emailed all the syndicate members of those horses we planned to enter and run this coming week, it was nine o�clock.

I sighed. It felt more like midday.

I went upstairs to shower and dress.

I was standing by the car when she came out of the station.

Once upon a time, at the start of our relationship, we would have run towards each other, embracing and kissing passionately, even if we�d only been away from each other for a few hours, never mind a whole week.

But now there was hardly a flicker of emotion between us.

We simply pecked each other on the cheek.

�Good journey?� I asked.

�Yes, very good,� she replied. �I paid an extra ten pounds to upgrade to a first-class seat between Leeds and Kings Cross. It was a weekend offer.�

�That was good.�

I put her suitcase in the car boot, and we both climbed in.

In spite of us having been apart for a whole week, I drove home in silence.

�Have you spoken to either James or Amanda?� Georgina asked as we turned into the driveway.

�Both of them,� I said. �They�re fine.�

I�m not sure why I didn�t mention Amanda�s second disappearance to my wife, either previously or now. I suppose it was mainly not to worry her, but it also may have had something to do with me not having to explain to her why I hadn�t immediately gone out searching. And Thursday evening seemed like a very long time ago now, and in more ways than one.

We went in and I took Georgina�s small suitcase upstairs. She followed.

�It�s so good to be home,� she said. �I only really took enough clothes for three days, so I�m looking forward to putting on something different.�

�You unpack and change,� I said. �I�ll go down and put the oven on. Do you fancy a glass of wine?�

�Is there any white?�

�I bought you some Sauvignon Blanc. It�s in the fridge.�

�Lovely.�

I went downstairs and opened two bottles, white for her and red for me. Whereas we had once always shared a bottle, even our taste in wine had now gone its separate ways.

I switched on the oven to heat up and then took her wine up to her. She was in the shower, so I left it on her dressing table and went back down again.

Why did I suddenly feel that my life straitjacket, which I had so spectacularly discarded during this past week, was suddenly being refitted tightly around my body?

I took my wine into the sitting room, but that only seemed to intensify my discomfort. It also made me think about Toni and what she would be doing.

There was a five-hour time difference between the U.K. and Lexington, so it would be about two o�clock in the afternoon there. Would she also be thinking of me, or would she be just getting herself ready to go back to work at Keeneland Racetrack the following morning?

I shook my head. Stop it, I told myself silently.

I went back into the kitchen for some more wine.

Georgina came downstairs in pyjamas and a dressing gown.

�Everything looks fine,� she said, walking around and running her finger across the worktop as if she was looking for dirt.

�Don�t sound so surprised,� I replied sharply. �I�m quite able to look after the place on my own.�

�I didn�t it mean as a criticism,� she mumbled. �Quite the reverse.�

Why was I being so tetchy with her?

�Sorry,� I said. �It�s good to have you home. More wine?�

I arrived home at quarter past nine to find Georgina in her dressing gown, lying flat out on her back on the sheepskin rug in the sitting room, with her eyes shut.

�What are you doing?� I asked, slightly perturbed at finding my wife in such a state, and particularly on that specific spot.

�Mindfulness,� she replied without opening her eyes. �There�s a post on Instagram that says it should be good for my anxiety. It said that meditating should help me to always remain calm.�

�And does it?�

�I�m not sure. I don�t think I�m doing it right. I mostly just seem to nod off.�

We both laughed together. A first for ages.

�Did you win?� she asked.

�Second. But he ran well.�

�Good. Have you eaten?�

�I had some fish around five. But I�m quite hungry. I think I�ll make myself a slice of toast, maybe with some of that p�t� I bought.�

She stood up. �I�ll get it. Do you want a glass of wine as well?�

�That would be lovely.�

Maybe her mindfulness meditating was working after all, but was it too little too late?

Georgina went up to bed at ten o�clock while I stayed downstairs to watch the television news and enjoy a second glass of red wine. However, after listening to the headlines, I flicked the TV off. The news was all bad, and I was quite distressed enough without adding to it any further.

But I had one more thing to do before I went to bed, so I took my wine through to my office and sat at my desk to do it.

I composed a text to my children concerning the state of my marriage to their mother and demanding that they come to a meeting to discuss matters. It took me a long while, but in the end I was happy with it, or as happy as I could be under the circumstances, and I pushed �Send.�

Now, only time would tell if it had been a good idea or not.

They all stared at me again.

�What?� Georgina asked.

�For the past three weeks, someone has been calling me, and in a squeaky voice he or she has been demanding that I make Victrix horses lose races. And it�s one of these four youngsters here. And I want to know which one.�

�Don�t be ridiculous,� James said.

�Being ridiculous, am I? So speaks someone who blatantly lied to me, his own father, about whether he came into this house last Saturday afternoon.�

I stared at him, but he said nothing.

�I know you did, so why didn�t you say so when I specifically asked you? You came here to collect something from your room, even though you told me that it was Gary who had to collect something from his house. You also left a dirty glass in the kitchen sink. Had a drink of water, did you? But forgot to put the glass back in the cupboard?�

I paused but still James said nothing. Neither did Gary. So I went on.

�And what was it in your room that was so important that you came all the way from Bristol to fetch it, and at such short notice?�

James just sat there, looking up at me.

�No answer?� I said, looking down at him. �Okay, I�ll tell you. You came to collect some black notebooks, four of them, from the bottom drawer of your desk.�

�You shouldn�t be going through my things,� James mumbled.

�I went through your desk because you asked me to. I was looking for your passport, remember. It had slipped down the back, from the top drawer to behind the bottom one. Hence I found the notebooks, and the printed BUGS flyers, one of which I sent to you, along with your passport. It must have given you a huge fright, because you knew where the flyers had been. Under the notebooks. Which meant I must have seen those too.�

�So what was so important about these notebooks?� Georgina asked.

James didn�t answer, so I answered for him.

�The books contained lists of names, amounts, and calculations for the Bristol University Gamblers Society, something that James and Gary, here, have been running together for the past two years.�

You could have heard a pin drop.

�I suspect you wrote everything down in the notebooks by hand so that it couldn�t be found on your computers. And I imagine you kept them here in case your flat in Bristol was broken into or raided by the police. Because operating a gambling club without a proper licence is illegal.

�But you hadn�t reckoned on me finding them. So you decided to come and fetch them before I realised what they were. And I probably would never have realised except that James lied to me about coming here, and I was determined to find out why. So I searched his room again, and the notebooks were gone. I had briefly flicked through them all when I�d been looking for James�s passport, so I sat down and worked hard at remembering what I had seen.�

�But what has this got to do with someone phoning you about horses losing?� Georgina asked.

�The Bristol University Gambling Society has not been having a good time in recent months, especially as they guaranteed a return on stake money to all the students who joined � hundreds and hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, each of whom handed over their cash in good faith.�

I looked at both James and Gary, but they went on sitting, stony-faced, saying nothing.

�Matched betting was it?� I asked. �Using James�s mathematical skill to work out the stakes. For risk-free returns.�

Still no response.

�And all was going fine as long as you kept getting the bookmakers free bets. But when they dried up, it was more difficult, especially after some of the Bristol betting shops stopped taking your bets altogether. So you tried to force me into stopping the Victrix horses, so you could lay them big on the exchanges without having to also bet on them to win with a bookmaker.�

�But how could they force you?� Georgina asked.

�By kidnapping Amanda and then threatening to kill her if I didn�t obey their instructions.�

Even Georgina was now silent, with her mouth hanging open in shock.

�Now you are being ridiculous,� James said, finally finding his voice. �How could Gary or I have possibly kidnapped Amanda when we were both at the same party as you and Mum. And we were there all the time.�

�Because no one did actually kidnap Amanda, did they?�

I looked straight at Amanda who was sitting next to her mother on the sofa in front of me. She went bright pink.

�Amanda simply walked out of the garden when no one was looking and then drove herself away. Gary�s car, was it? You drove to Pangbourne, parked the car somewhere in a back street from where Gary could collect it later, and then you waited for a while before banging on someone�s front door with a cock-and-bull story that you couldn�t remember anything.�

�But she�d been drugged,� said Georgina. �How could she drive?�

�Ah, yes,� I said. �The ketamine. Are you aware that you can inhale it as a white powder? Or even take it by mouth as a liquid?�

�But there was an injection puncture on her neck.�

�Indeed, there was,� I said. �But that wasn�t how the ketamine got into her system. That puncture mark had been made earlier, probably by our medical student here.� I pointed at Gary. �It was conveniently covered up at the party by a white scarf tied tightly around her neck. The same scarf that was dramatically left behind on the ground, to further make it look like she had been taken away by force.�

James stood up. �This is all fucking nonsense. I�m going.�

�Sit down!� I said sharply. �I�m not finished.�

�You might not be, but I am. Come on, Gary � let�s go.�

�If you step out of this room, James, I will have no option but to call the police and hand them all the evidence I have.�

�You don�t have any evidence,� Gary said, also standing up. �It�s all just a fanciful story you�ve made up, and I�ve heard enough of it.�

�Do you know someone called Mike Mercer?� I asked.

�Never heard of him,� Gary said, but his body language shouted otherwise.

�Well, he knows of you, all right. He told me all about you when I went to see him in Bath yesterday afternoon. He left Bristol University last summer, and he claims that your gambling society is a huge con trick. And he�s been saying so on social media for months. He says that you tried threatening him, to make him stop. But he wouldn�t stop, would he? Instead, he went to the local papers. That�s how I found him.�

�He doesn�t know what he�s talking about,� Gary said. �And what he says is not evidence.�

�Are you willing to take that risk? Now sit down, both of you.�

Slowly and reluctantly, James and Gary returned to their seats.

I turned towards Amanda.

�And it seems, young lady, that you are making a habit of being abducted by mysterious men. But it never actually happened, did it?�

She said nothing. She just looked at me.

�First at the party,� I said, �and then again last week. That�s what you claimed. Darren called me at nine o�clock on Thursday evening to say you had gone missing again. He said you�d left the flat at seven to get him some beers from the local shop, but you hadn�t come back. He even said he�d been out to look for you. So I called the police again to report you missing. But you weren�t really missing, were you, Amanda?�

She said nothing.

�Because you spent the evening sitting in a corner of the saloon bar of the Railway Tavern, in Didcot, waiting for a telephone call to tell you when you could walk home. The landlord remembers you very well because you only bought one soft drink the whole evening and didn�t talk to anyone. He told me that he�d felt sorry for you and thought you might have been there to get away from an abusive partner, so he didn�t ask you to leave.

�And then, just before closing time, he answered an incoming call for you on his landline. That was because you had left your own mobile phone behind at the flat, so that it couldn�t be used to trace where you were, just as you had done on the night of the party. The pub landlord said you called yourself Elizabeth, but he recognised you all right from this picture.�

I held up my mobile phone with Amanda�s smiling face showing on the screen � a photo I�d taken the previous Christmas Day.

�You even told me that the van smelled of dogs, just to try and confuse the issue. I bet you and Darren had a good laugh about that.�

�I knew nothing about it,� Darren said.

I didn�t believe him.

Amanda was now openly crying and hanging her head in shame, as well she might, considering the terror and distress she had caused her mother and me.

�I�m sorry,� she said between sobs.

�So who rang you at the Railway Tavern?� I asked. �Was it Darren?�

She shook her head without looking up. �It was Gary. The whole thing was his idea.�

�Shut up!� Gary shouted at her. �You stupid little bitch!�

He leapt up from his seat and tried to hit her, but I took a step forward to stop him, grabbing his raised wrist before he could bring his hand down on her.

�Don�t you dare touch my daughter, you little shit.�

He wrenched himself free from my grasp and then reached into his jacket pocket. When he pulled his hand out again, there was a flash of reflected light � the hand now held a knife.

�Don�t be stupid, Gary,� I said, shocked at this sudden escalation. �Put the knife away.�

But from his angry demeanour, it was quite clear that he had no intention of putting the knife away.

Anger plus a knife.

Together they made for a very dangerous combination.

The whole thing had seemed to occur almost in slow motion, but there was nothing slow about the way blood started pouring out of the wound in Darren�s body.

Within seconds, the front of his white T-shirt was saturated bright red, and a steady stream was already cascading from it, down onto the wooden sitting-room floor.

Amanda screamed.

For a couple of seconds, Gary seemed transfixed by what he had done, staring down at the ever-increasing pool of scarlet liquid on the floor, but then he turned and ran, first out into the hall, then on out through the front door, leaving it wide open.

I rushed forward to where Darren had now sunk to his knees, with Amanda supporting him.

�Lie him down,� I ordered. �We need to apply pressure.�

I pulled off my own polo shirt, made it into a ball, and then held it very tightly against the wound. Darren moaned as I did so, from the pain.

�Sorry,� I said to him, pushing hard against him. �It needs to be done to stop the bleeding. Otherwise you�ll bleed to death.�

Amanda and I laid him down, and I used my weight to push down even harder. He stared up at me with wide, frightened eyes, and with good reason.

The initial rate of bleeding suggested that the knife had punctured something critical, perhaps his liver or one of the blood vessels connected to it. Without the pressure, he would bleed out in a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds. But what he also needed now, and urgently, was proper medical help.

�James,� I shouted, turning my head towards him. �Call an ambulance. And the police.�

He hesitated, instead looking out the sitting room window towards the gateway onto the road through which his friend was driving away at high speed.

�James, do it now!�

�I�ve already called them,� Patrick said. �They�re on their way.�

He still held his phone, and I suddenly realised that he had been filming everything that had been going on. He saw me looking at him and shrugged.

�Evidence,� he said. �Sorry. Force of habit.�

Amanda kneeled down beside Darren and stroked his forehead.

�You�re my hero,� she said to him.

He tried to smile at her, but he was clearly in great pain and in shock. His face was very pale.

�But he will be all right, won�t he?� Amanda asked, looking across at me, searching for some reassurance.

I didn�t like to tell her that it depended on how long the ambulance took to arrive, but she could probably read that in my face.

I knew that, in spite of the external pressure, Darren would still be bleeding internally, and much would depend on how much blood he was losing into his abdominal cavity. If it was too much and it couldn�t be replaced in time, it might result in not enough oxygen getting to his organs, and his body would begin to shut down.

I looked down at him.

�How are you doing?� I asked.

�I�m cold,� he said. �Yet I�m sweating.�

I thought sweating was not a good sign.

Keeping the pressure on Darren�s abdomen with one hand, I reached for his wrist with the other. His pulse seemed strong enough, but it was very rapid, and I didn�t know whether that was good or bad. I was just thankful that there was a pulse at all.

�Where�s the bloody ambulance?� I asked of no one in particular.

It had probably only been two or three minutes since Darren had been stabbed, but it felt more like half an hour.

Indeed, time in that room seemed to have almost stopped altogether.

James went on staring out the window, perhaps contemplating the disastrous mess that he was now part of, while Amanda remained kneeling on the floor next to Darren, stroking his forehead and constantly telling him how sorry she was.

And Georgina had recovered her composure.

�I think I�ll put the kettle on,� she said, standing up from the sofa as if nothing had happened and there wasn�t a young man quite likely bleeding to death on her sitting-room floor. It was as if she had blocked out everything.

She didn�t quite have to step over Darren�s prostrate body to reach the door on her way to the kitchen, but it was a close-run thing.

Meanwhile, Patrick continued filming.

It was Detective Sergeant Christine Royle who arrived next, in an unmarked car, along with her sidekick, DC Abbot.

�We meet again, Mr Newton,� she said without any warmth. �What�s been going on here then?�

Patrick stepped forward.

�Officer,� he said. �My name is Patrick Hogg. I�m a barrister. A King�s Counsel. I am here at the invitation of Mr Newton, as an observer. And I have a video on my phone of everything that happened, up to and including the stabbing of the young man.�

�Do you, indeed?� said the DS. �Then I had better see it. Please come and sit in my car.�

Patrick and the two detectives walked to the car and climbed in.

I would have much preferred it if Patrick did not show the detectives the first part of the meeting but, as he�d said, I had asked him to come as an observer, and it was a bit late now not to want his observations, including his video.

�What�s going to happen now?� Amanda asked. �I�m really worried.�

�We�ll just have to wait to see how Darren recovers,� I said.

�It�s not just Darren. What about me?�

There was not much I could say, so I said nothing.

James, meanwhile, still seemed somewhat distant.

�Where would Gary go?� I asked him.

�What do you mean?� He stared blankly at me.

�I mean, where would he be going right now?�

He shook his head. �No idea.�

�How about Bristol?� I said.

�Why would he go there?�

�How about for his passport? And for clothes? To get away.�

�And some money,� James said. �We have a bit stashed away.�

�How much?�

�A few grand. It�s in our flat, under my bed.�

I didn�t feel it was appropriate at that particular moment to ask how an impoverished university student had several thousand pounds of cash hidden under his bed. That would be a question for later.

I had the flat address on my phone. It was where I had sent James�s passport only the previous Friday.

I walked down to the police car and tapped on the window.

DC Abbot climbed out.

�My son and I think it�s possible that Gary Shipman may have gone back to Bristol, to a student flat they share. He might be trying to collect his passport and some cash they have there.�

I gave him the address of the flat.

�Thank you, sir,� said DC Abbot. �I�ll get on to Avon and Somerset to send someone to check.�

�Tell them he�s armed. He took the knife with him.�

�I will, sir.�

The constable got back into the car.

What a mess, I thought. How on earth are we going to survive this as a family?

Gary Shipman had pleaded guilty at his first opportunity in the Magistrates Court, to unlawful wounding with an offensive weapon, occasioning grievous bodily harm, and also to threatening an individual with a knife such that the said individual was in fear for their life.

He was full of remorse and regret, and the Crown Prosecution Service accepted his plea that he had not intended to injure anyone. He claimed the stabbing had simply been a defensive reflex action when Darren had leapt towards him.

Three weeks later he was sent to the Crown Court, where a judge handed down a sentence of two years in custody for each offence, but to run concurrently rather than consecutively, for which Patrick Hogg thought he was a very lucky boy.

But that was only the start of his problems.

Following the seizure of Patrick�s video by the police, both Gary and James had been arrested on suspicion of fraud, and over the following month the whole sorry business of the Bristol University Gambling Society had been fully exposed, and it was a much bigger mess than I had expected.

Basically, it had developed into a Ponzi scheme.

Initially, with only the cash from a small handful of their closest friends, Gary and James had used the free bets and other promotions provided by the bookmakers to make a healthy return using the matched-betting technique.

They had distributed the winnings to their �investors,� which in turn had encouraged them to invest more, and by word of mouth, more and more students had then joined, such that Gary and James suddenly found they had thousands of pounds each week to bet with.

And that number soon became even bigger as the apparent returns kept coming and word spread throughout the university student population. But in reality, the boys had resorted to paying out �winnings� that didn�t actually exist, in order to further increase the number of members joining.

By now, most of the local Bristol and online bookmakers had gubbed their accounts, which meant they had excluded the society from receiving any more free bets and other promotions, and some had limited the amount they could stake. A few bookmakers had even closed their accounts altogether.

So the �payouts� were in fact now being made straight from the money new society members were bringing in, rather than from any actual winnings.

At one point, they�d had more than two thousand members, some �investing� a hundred pounds or more at a time, and all was fine for a while, as long as the flow of new members kept bringing in more cash to fund everything.

However, it all started to go wrong when the ex � University of Bristol student Mike Mercer had gone to the local newspaper, claiming it was all a con. Suddenly, the supply of new members joining began to slow, and even to dry up, and those already in wanted to cash out from their accounts.

But the society didn�t have enough money to pay them what they�d been promised.

So, in a last-ditch effort to turn around their fortunes, Gary hatched the plan to kidnap Amanda in order to force me to make Victrix horses lose races so he and James could lay them for huge amounts on the exchanges.

Although James claimed he was reluctant to do it, he had gone along with the plan because they were desperate, and he had set up the filming of Darren selling cocaine to force Amanda into agreeing.

When Dream Filler has been disqualified at Lingfield, and Hameed had then been beaten at Newbury, they had managed to recoup some of their losses. But Potassium�s win at Ascot had cost them dearly, so they had decided to give me a �reminder� that they could kidnap Amanda anytime they liked, and I�d better do what they told me.

It had also been James who had suggested calling his mother�s phone several times before hanging up without speaking. He reckoned, correctly, that she would tell me about the calls, and that would add further pressure for me to do what they wanted.

In all, it was estimated that in excess of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds had �disappeared,� although a substantial proportion of that had been erroneously paid out to society members as �winnings� to which they weren�t legally entitled. Much of the rest had been lost to bookmakers or to other gamblers on the betting exchanges.

Certainly Gary and James hadn�t pocketed very much from the scheme, maybe less than ten thousand pounds between them.

Bad as it was, at least it wasn�t even close to being in the Bernie Madoff league. His asset-management Ponzi scheme in the United States had involved the embezzlement of an estimated sixty-five billion � yes, billion � U.S. dollars.

However, it was still bad enough for the University of Bristol to abruptly boot both Gary and James out of their courses and to ban them for life from ever again setting foot on the University premises.

All that effort to secure the tenancy of a new Bristol flat had been in vain, and it had been my searching for James�s passport, needed by the letting agency, that had been the catalyst for me to start working everything out.

In court, at Patrick Hogg�s urging, they both pleaded guilty to profiting illegally by knowingly making false representations, contrary to the 2006 Fraud Act, and they were both jailed for eighteen months. This time, Gary�s term was to run consecutively to his other sentences.

Now, the only accommodation the two of them would have for the coming year and beyond, rather than being their much hoped-for flat, would have no door handles on the inside, and bars across the windows.

As to the other business, the �kidnap Amanda� plan and the threats made to harm her if I didn�t do as I was told to fix races, no action was taken by the police, mostly because I did not wish to make any complaints against my own children.

That may have been seen by some as just generous parenting, but I also didn�t want to be asked any difficult questions about any missing lead weights.

However, one of the burner phones in Gary Shipman�s bag had contained details of calls and texts made to my mobile number. There had also been an electronic voice changer found in the bag, confirming him as Squeaky Voice.

While Amanda had not been arrested or charged with anything, she had been issued with a ninety-pound Fixed Penalty Notice for wasting police time, which, of course, I had paid.