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bad,’ I said, on reflection glad not to have to see Lord Tintern this evening. ‘Did he say what it was about?’
    Matt shook his head. ‘No, and I didn’t ask.’
    â€˜I’ll have to wait till tomorrow then,’ I said philosophically. ‘I was going to go over to Wetherdown, but I don’t think I can face Jane yet. At least this’ll give you a chance to buy me a drink to celebrate your win.’
    â€˜And the fact that you and Nester are still alive in spite of your pathetic performance!’
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    â€˜Toby Brown has always thought he was right,’ Lord Tintern said with mild disparagement. He paused while he poured us both a hefty measure of ten-year-old Laphroaig.
    The bottle and two heavy cut-crystal glasses stood on the polished mahogany surface of an elegant early-Georgian card table. The table stood alone in the middle of a small, panelled meeting room in the Jockey Club premises at Portman Square in the West End of London. ‘He used to work for me, you know, years ago when he first left school. He’s my godson, as a matter of fact. I took him on as a favour to his mother, as a sort of trainee racing manager.’
    â€˜Wasn’t he any good, then?’ I prompted.
    Lord Tintern glanced at me down his long, slightly hooked nose. He reminded me of a golden eagle I’d once seen at a falconry centre, gazing disdainfully from high on its perch. I was interested to observe that only three generations away from the keeper of a tiny inn off the Great North Road, Tintern seemed to have acquired all the characteristics of a true aristocrat.
    I had the impression that he was going to pounce on me for the audacity of my remark, but he restrained himself. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘he showed real flair for the job, but he was more interested in running the horses for his own gain than the good of their careers; we pretty soon fell out. I can’t say I’ve given him much thought since then, but, as you know, he’s the hottest property in the game now, tipping all these winners. And, I might say, causing a lot of worries.’
    â€˜Tell that to the millions of punters all over the country who are following him.’
    â€˜Quite frankly, Simon, I’m not particularly sorry to see the big bookmakers losing for once. But that’s not the point – the fact of the matter is, Toby’s up to something. Nobody in the history of horse racing has ever been so successful as a tipster. You and I both know that, no matter how clever you are or how hard you work, there’s always an element of luck involved. Toby’s found a way to dispense with that, and it means only one thing: he’s cheating. The bookies are baying for his blood. They sent a delegation to us over the weekend, and I’ve been asked to look into it.’
    â€˜Why don’t you use your own security people?’
    â€˜Because Toby knows them. We’ve been on his case for a while now and come up with nothing. I thought maybe a fresh approach would throw up something.’
    â€˜Okay,’ I said. But I was still surprised that he’d turned to us. The Jockey Club employed at least two dozen full-time ex-CID men, as well as a handful of retrained old soldiers, to maintain the integrity of British racing. And if it was true that Toby knew them all, it was also true that he knew me, and that I was now in the security business myself.
    I was glad this didn’t seem to have put Tintern off. I’d been hustling for some Jockey Club business for months, but in the back of my mind I was concerned that my decision to run Nester against Tintern’s horse in the Champion Chase hadn’t struck home yet; I was sure that sooner or later it would get right up his nose and seriously affect our chances of working together.
    So why was he giving me instructions now?
    For the moment, I decided just to let things run. A job was a job.