I joined him in the parade ring and asked if he wanted the tickets.

'No. If he wins, collect for me, will you?'

'OK.'.

Nolan was talking to the owners, exercising his best charm and moderating his language. In jockey's clothes he still looked chunky, strong and powerfully arrogant, but the swagger seemed to stop the moment he sat on the horse. Then professionalism took over and he was concentrated, quiet and neat in the saddle.

I tagged along behind Tremayne and the owners and, from the stands, watched Nolan give a display of razor-sharp competence that made most of the other amateurs look like Sunday drivers.

He saved countable seconds over the fences, his mount gaining lengths by always seeming to take off at the right spot. Judgment, not luck. The courage that Mackie loved was still there, unmistakable.

The owners, mother and daughter, were tremblers. They weren't entirely white and near to dying, but from what they said the betting money was out of their pockets and on the horse in a big way and there was a good deal of lip- and knuckle-biting from off to finish.

Nolan, as if determined to outride Sam Yaeger, hurled himself over the last three fences and won by ten lengths pulling up. Tremayne let out a deep breath and the owners hugged each other, hugged Tremayne and stopped shaking.

'You could give Nolan a good cash present for that,' Tremayne said bluntly.

The owners thought Nolan would be embarra.s.sed if they gave him such a present.

'Give it to me, to give to him. No embarra.s.sment.'

The owners said they'd better run down and lead in their winner, which they did.

'Stingy cats,' Tremayne said in my ear as we watched them fuss over the horse and have their picture taken.

'Won't they really give Nolan anything?' I asked.

'It's against the rules, and they know it. Amateurs aren't supposed to be given money for winning. Nolan will have backed the horse anyway, he always does with a hot chance like this. And I get one hundred per cent commitment from my jockey.' His voice was dry with humour. 'I often think the Jockey Club has it wrong, not letting professional jockeys bet on their own mounts.'

He returned to the weighing room to fetch Sam's saddle and weight cloth for Cashless, and I went off to the Tote and collected his Telebiddy winnings, which approximately equalled his stake. Nolan, it appeared, had been riding the hot favourite.

When I commented on it to Tremayne in the parade ring as we watched Cashless being led round, he told me that Nolan's presence on any horse shortened its odds, and Telebiddy had won twice for him already this season. It was a wonder, Tremayne said, that the Tote had paid evens: he'd expected less of a return. I would do him a favour, he added, if I would give him his winnings on the way home, not in public, so I walked around with a small fortune I had no hope of repaying if I lost it, keeping it clutched in my left-hand trouser pocket.

We went up to the stands for the race and watched Cashless set off in front as expected, a position he easily held until right where it mattered, the last fifty yards. Then three jockeys who had been waiting behind him stepped on the accelerator, and although Cashless didn't in any way give up, the three others pa.s.sed him.

Tremayne shrugged. 'Too bad.'

'Will you run him in front again next time?' I asked, as we went down off the stands.

'I expect so. We've tried keeping him back and he runs worse. He's one-paced in a finish, that's his trouble. He's game enough, but it's hard to find races he can win.'

We reached the parade ring where the unsuccessful runners were being unsaddled. Sam, looping girths over his arm, gave Tremayne a rueful smile and said Cashless had done his best.

'I saw,' Tremayne agreed. 'Can't be helped.' We watched Sam walk off towards the weighing room and Tremayne remarked thoughtfully that he might try Cashless in an amateur race, and see what Nolan could do.

'Do you play them off against each other on purpose?' I asked.

Tremayne gave me a flickering glance. 'I do the best for my owners,' he said. 'Like a drink?'

It appeared he had arranged to meet the owners of Telebiddy in the Club bar and when we arrived they were already celebrating with a bottle of champagne. Nolan, too, was there, being incredibly nice to them but without financial results.

When the two women had left in a state of euphoria, Nolan asked belligerently whether Tremayne had told them to give him a present.

'I suggested it,' Tremayne said calmly, 'but you'll be lucky. Better settle for what you took from the bookmakers yourself

'd.a.m.n little,' Nolan said, or words to that effect, 'and the bloodsucking lawyers will get the lot.' He shouldered his way out of the bar in self-righteous outrage, which seemed to be his uppermost state of mind oftener than not.

With non-committal half-lowered eyelids Tremayne watched him go, then transferred his gaze to me.

'Well,' he asked, 'what have you learned?'

'What you intended me to, I expect.'

He smiled. 'And a bit more than I intended. I've noticed you do that all the time.' With a contented sigh he put down his empty gla.s.s. 'Two winners,' he said. 'A better than average day at the races. Let's go home.'

At about the time we were driving home with Tremayne's winnings safely stowed in his own pockets, not mine, Detective Chief Inspector Doone was poring over the increased pickings from the woodland.

The Detective Chief Inspector could be said to be purring. Among some insignificant long-rusted detritus lay the star of the whole collection, a woman's handbag. Total satisfaction had been denied him, as the prize had been torn open on one side, probably by a dog, whose toothmarks still showed, so that most of the contents had been lost. All the same, he was left with a shoulder strap, a corroded buckle and at least half of a brown plastic school-style bag which still held, in an intact inner zipped pocket, a small mirror and a folded photograph frame.

With careful movements Doone opened the frame and found inside, water-stained along one edge but otherwise sharply clear, a coloured snapshot of a man standing beside a horse.

Disappointed that there was still no easy identification of the handbag's past owner, Doone took a telephone call from the pathologist.

'You were asking about teeth,' the pathologist said. 'The dental records you gave me are definitely not those of our bones. Our girl had good teeth. One or two missing, but no fillings. Sorry.'

Doone's disappointment deepened. The politician's daughter had just been ruled out. He mentally reviewed his list again, skipped the prost.i.tutes and provisionally paused on Angela Brickell, stable lad. Angela Brickell- horse.

The bombsh.e.l.l burst on Sh.e.l.lerton on Thursday. Tremayne was upstairs showering and dressing before going to Towcester races when the doorbell rang. Dee-Dee went to answer it and presently came into the dining-room looking mystified.

'It's two men,' she said. 'They say they're policemen. They flashed some sort of ident.i.ty cards, but they won't say what they want. I've put them in the family room until Tremayne comes down. Go and keep an eye on them, would you mind?

'Sure,' I said, already on the move. 'Thanks,' she said, returning to the office. 'Whatever they want, it looks boring.'

I could see why she thought so. The two men might have invented the word grey, so characterless did they appear at first sight. Ultimate plain clothes, I thought. 'Can I help you?' I said.

'Are you Tremayne Vickers?' one of them asked. 'No. He'll be down soon. Can I help?' 'No, thank you, sir. Can you fetch him?' 'He's in the shower.'

The policeman raised his eyebrows. Trainers, however, didn't shower before morning exercise, they showered after, before going racing. That was Tremayne's habit, anyway. Dee-Dee had told me. 'He's been up since six,' I said. The policeman's eyes widened, as if I'd read his mind.

'I am Detective Chief Inspector Doone, Thames Valley Police,' he said. 'This is Detective Constable Rich.'

'How do you do,' I said politely. 'I'm John Kendall. Would you care to sit down?'

They perched gingerly on chairs and said no to an offer of coffee.

'Will he be long, sir?' Doone asked. 'We must see him soon.'

'No, not long.' ,