brings you here, then? Havenât seen much of you lately.â
âActually, I came to speak to you.â
âReally.â He seemed surprised. âNever heard of the telephone?â
âMuch better in person,â I said.
âWhat about?â
âRed Rosette.â
âWhat about him?â
âHis run at Sandown last month,â I said. âIn the novice chase. Same day as the Mercia Gold Cup.â
He shook his head slightly. âCanât remember. I ride lots of horses. I know he didnât win. Iâd have remembered that.â
âNo,â I said, âhe didnât win. Made a hash of the last fence. You asked him to take an extra stride, but there wasnât room. He got in too close and plowed his way through. Do you remember now?â
âYeah, I believe I do. Silly mistake of mine. I thought he was too tired to stand off, and I misjudged the distance.â
âYeah,â I echoed. âAnd how about Martian Man in the novice hurdle here at Newbury on the same day as the Hennessy? Was that a silly mistake as well?â
Jimmy stopped walking.
âWhat are you implying?â he asked, not looking at me.
âIâm not implying anything,â I said, although it was clear I was. âI just wondered if you had a theory of why a horse that on all his previous runs had been a front-runner with no noteworthy sprint finish had been held up for so long at the back of the field on this occasion that heâd never had a chance to overhaul the leaders in the straight.â
âI did nothing wrong,â he declared.
âDidnât you?â I asked pointedly.
âLeave me alone,â he said, setting off again at an even faster pace.
I walked a few steps after him but then stopped and called out to him instead. âIs that what you said to Billy McCusker?â
There was an almost imperceptible break in his stride, only for a split second, but Iâd noticed. He recovered quickly and walked away towards the racetrack exit without looking back.
âWho is Billy McCusker?â Marina asked.
âI think he may be the man on the telephone with the Northern Irish accent.â
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
â C ALL THE POLICE,â Marina demanded.
âI will,â I said, âwhen Iâm sure itâs him.â
We were sitting in our Range Rover, having safely negotiated the return trip across the parking lot.
âBut who is he anyway?â
âA former Belfast paramilitary thug whoâs now a bookmaker in Manchester.â
It wasnât the answer that Marina had wanted or expected.
âMy God!â she said. âThatâs all we need. A bloody terrorist after us.â
âMommy!â Sassy shouted from the backseat. âThatâs a naughty word.â
âShush, darling,â I said.
But it wasnât Marinaâs use of the naughty word
bloody
that I found disturbing, it was the word
terrorist
. I was about to start the engine when I suddenly had visions of booby traps and car bombs.
âWhat on earth are you doing?â Marina asked in irritation as I slipped out of the driverâs seat and went to look under the Range Roverâs hood. I also checked all around the vehicle, and underneath it as well, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing I could see.
âJust checking,â I said with a smile as I climbed back in, but there remained a certain degree of unease in my mind when I did finally push the start button.
Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened, nothing other than the twin-turbo V6 3.0-liter diesel engine coming smoothly to life.
I silently rebuked myself for being so melodramatic. The situation was tense enough already.
Nevertheless, I spent almost as much time watching the rearview mirror as I did the road on the fifty or so miles up the A34 to home, but, if a car had followed us, I couldnât spot it.
I was