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‘I’ll let you have a preliminary report by the end of the week,’ I said. ‘But you must have considered the possibility that it’s no more than just a lucky run?’
    Tintern shook his head. ‘Nobody stays lucky that long. He’s on his own inside track, and we’ve got to know how he got there. But,’ Tintern hesitated a second, ‘take your time. You know – softly, softly catchee monkey.’
    I nodded, thinking what a fatuous maxim that was. Besides, Toby was no monkey. ‘Shall I report to you?’
    â€˜Yes, of course. Anything you need, just ask.’
    Once the business end of the conversation was over, we spent a few minutes exchanging racing small talk. Lord Tintern was affable enough and I was careful to avoid anything that might lead to a reference to Nester. The entries for the Queen Mother Champion Chase had been published three weeks before and I couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed Nester among them. I guessed he’d be more than a little irritated to see a horse that he had once owned and written off entered in any race, let alone a Championship. Especially as he knew that I’d bought Nester from his daughter for the same token payment she had made to him.
    â€˜By the way,’ he was saying, ‘Emma phoned from Florida last Friday. She said she was coming home tonight.’
    â€˜That’s great news,’ I said, trying to conceal my elation.
    â€˜I should warn you,’ he said, looking directly at me, ‘I don’t think you’ll get much encouragement from her. I imagine she has bigger fish to fry.’
    I didn’t speak for a second or two and decided, small fish that I was, not to rise to the bait. ‘I’m sure she has,’ I said mildly.
    â€˜You know, of course, that I wasn’t too happy about her selling that horse to you,’ he went on.
    I shrugged my shoulders to hide my alarm that he’d decided to raise the subject now. ‘I don’t think anyone believed he would recover at the time.’
    â€˜That’s not the point. The fact is, I’d virtually given the horse to her – I’d be very unhappy if he suddenly came back to form. However, we mustn’t let a bit of sporting rivalry interfere with our professional relationship, must we?’ he added, with a sudden gracious smile, holding out a hand to me. ‘Don’t take too long getting to the bottom of this business with Toby.’
    Â 
    When Toby Brown wasn’t staying in his exotically decorated flat in Mayfair, he lived on his own in an exquisite Strawberry Hill Gothic cottage on the edge of his mother’s estate at Wetherdown, near East Ilsley.
    Besides his tipping service, Toby seemed to have fingers in every racing pie. He had a few horses in training – none, surprisingly, with his mother; he owned several brood mares and youngsters, and he regularly bought and sold foals and yearlings. He also had a newspaper column and regularly appeared on television to air his idiosyncratic views on racing.
    Although there was rumoured to be a partner involved in his telephone operation, everyone knew it was all Toby’s making. His high profile had ensured that his success was well documented and the line had quickly taken off.
    He claimed he’d devised an entirely new formula for picking winners. This took into account more factors influencing the outcome of a race than any rival tipster. He had measured every race-course in the country, made his own going assessments based on times, and even counted the number of strides taken by each horse to cover a furlong.
    Business was booming for Toby. When I’d asked him two weeks earlier, he’d arrogantly told me that he netted an average thirty pence every time a punter called in for the day’s selection and he was getting around five thousand calls a day, with up to twelve thousand on Saturdays. Not a bad income when you considered the