'Oh.' I paused. 'He died during last night.'

'Bad luck.'

'He was old. Eighty something. A blacksmith turned top racing journalist, grand old character, great unusual life. Pity we can't make a film of him him.'

'Films of good people don't have much appeal.'

'Ain't that the truth.'

'What was his name?'

'Valentine Clark,' I said. 'The Daily Cable Daily Cable might do an obituary of him too, you never know. He wrote for the might do an obituary of him too, you never know. He wrote for the Racing Gazette Racing Gazette. Everyone in racing knew him. And... um... he knew the real trainer, Jackson Wells, the basis of the character that Nash is playing.'

'Did he?' O'Hara's attention sharpened down the line. 'So you surely asked him what he knew of the hanging?'

'Yes, I did. He knew no more than anyone else. The police dropped the case for lack of leads. Valentine said Jackson Wells's wife was an unmemorable mouse. He couldn't tell me anything helpful. It was all so very long ago.'

O'Hara almost laughed. 'It was very long ago for you you, Thomas, because you're young. I'll bet twenty-six years is yesterday to Jackson Wells himself.'

'I... er...' I said diffidently, 'I did think of going to see him.'

'Jackson Wells?'

'Yes. Well, Valentine, my dead friend, he was originally a blacksmith, as I told you. He used to shoe my grandfather's horses regularly, and he did say he'd also sometimes shod the horses Jackson Wells trained. So perhaps I could make some excuse... following Valentine's death... to make a nostalgic visit to Jackson Wells. What do you think?'

'Go at once,' O'Hara said.

'He won't want to talk about the wife who hanged. He has a new life now and a second wife.'

'Try, anyway,' O'Hara said.

'Yes, I thought so. But he lives near Oxford... it'll take me half a day.'

'Worth it,' O'Hara said. 'I'll OK the extra time.'

'Good.'

'Goodnight,' he said. 'I've a lady waiting.'

'Good luck.'

He cursed me 'You son of a b.i.t.c.h' and disconnected.

I'd always loved early mornings in racing stables. I'd been down in my grandfather's yard dawn by dawn for years, half my day lived before the first school bell. I tended, for the film, to make the horses more of a priority in my attention than perhaps I should have, moving about the yard, in close contact with the creatures I'd grown up among, and felt at home with.

I'd ridden as an amateur jockey in jump races from the age of sixteen, with most of my family expecting horses in some way to be my life for ever, but fate and finance or lack of it had found me at twenty engaged in organising horses in Arizona for the cavalry in a Western drama. By twenty-one I'd become the director of a bad minor film about rodeo riders, but that had led to the same post in a n.o.ble native-American saga that had modestly hit the jackpot. After that I'd spent a year working for film editors, learning their craft, followed by another year on sound tracks and music, and by twenty-six I'd been let loose as director on an unconsidered romance between a boy and a puma that had made astonishing profits. O'Hara had been the producer: I had never since been long out of work. 'The boy's lucky,' O'Hara would say, selling my name. 'You can't buy luck. Trust me.'

For this present film I'd suggested to O'Hara early in the preproduction stage that this time we should buy buy, not rent or borrow for fees, our stableful of horses.

'Too expensive,' he'd objected automatically.

'Not necessarily,' I'd contradicted. 'We can buy cheap horses. There are hundreds that have never done well in races, but they look look like good thoroughbreds, and that's what's important. Also we won't have any problems with insurance or recompense for injuries, we can travel them where and when we like, and we can work them without anxious owners fluttering round to fuss about their feed or exercise. We can sell them again, at the end.' like good thoroughbreds, and that's what's important. Also we won't have any problems with insurance or recompense for injuries, we can travel them where and when we like, and we can work them without anxious owners fluttering round to fuss about their feed or exercise. We can sell them again, at the end.'

One of O'Hara's chief virtues, in my eyes, was his ability to evaluate facts very fast and come up with quick decisions. So 'Buy them,' he said, and he'd liberated sufficient funds for a bloodstock agency to acquire the fourteen good-looking no-hopers currently eating oats and hay in our yard.

The actors' unions having agreed we should use real-life stable personnel for the horses, I'd recruited a young a.s.sistant trainer from a prestigious Newmarket yard and installed him in charge of our whole horse operation, giving him the t.i.tle of horsemaster and also the riding but non-speaking role of a.s.sistant trainer in the film.

He was already busy getting lads and horses ready for the morning action when I arrived in the yard at dawn. Moncrieff's crew had laid felt carpeting over the gravel to silence the progress of the rolling camera dolly. He himself had strategically planted his lighting. Ed, he reported, was already in position upstairs.

The weather was cold and windy with dark scudding clouds. Moncrieff liked the moodiness, humming happily as he arranged for ominous shadows to fall across Nash's stand-in, who looked hopelessly un-trainerlike in riding gear. When Nash himself in character strode out of the house and yelled bad-tempered instructions to the lads it was as real as any such bona fide moment I'd ever seen.

There were annoyances with the camera truck one of its wheels squeaked despite the felt path. Oil and oaths fixed it. Moncrieff and I fretted at the delay because of light values. Nash seemed less irritated than resigned.

Only two takes were necessary of the a.s.sistant trainer giving Nash a leg-up onto his hack; the horse amazingly stood still. Nash wheeled away and sat on his mount in and out of shot while the a.s.sistant trainer heaved himself into his own saddle and led the circling string of by now mounted lads out through wide open stable gates onto the Newmarket training grounds beyond. Nash followed last, remembering to look back and up to the bedroom window. When his horse had walked him well out of sight I yelled 'Cut', and the whole string ambled back into the yard, the hooves scrunching on the gravel, the lads joshing each other like kids out of school.

'How did it go?' I asked Moncrieff. 'Cameras OK?'

'OK.'

'Print, then.' I walked among the horses to speak to their riders. 'That was good,' I said. 'We'll do it again, now, though. Two snaps are better than one.'

They nodded. By then they all considered themselves expert film-makers. The second take didn't go as smoothly, but that didn't necessarily matter: we would use the version that looked more natural on film.

I followed them on foot out of the gate to where Nash and all the lads were circling, awaiting my verdict.

'Same again tomorrow morning,' I said, patting horses' necks. 'Different clothes. Off you all go, then. Remember not to get in the way of any real racehorses. Walk and trot only on the grounds we've been allotted.'

The string filed off to exercise and Nash returned to the yard, dismounting and handing his reins to the lad left behind for the purpose.

'Is it still on for tomorrow?' he asked, turning in my direction.

'Doncaster, do you mean?'

He nodded.

'Of course it is,' I said. 'The stewards have asked you to their lunch, so you can use their box all afternoon and have as much or as little privacy as you want. They've sent tickets for two, for you to take a companion.'

'Who?'

'Whoever you like.'

'You, then.'

'What? I meant a friend, or perhaps Silva?' Silva was the bewitching actress he'd tumbled around with in bed. I meant a friend, or perhaps Silva?' Silva was the bewitching actress he'd tumbled around with in bed.

'Not her,' he said vehemently. 'You. Why not? And don't say you'll still be doing close shots in the enquiry room. Let's make d.a.m.ned sure they all get completed this afternoon. I want you because you know the drill on a British racecourse, and the racing people know you you.'

Green lights got what they wanted. Moreover, I discovered it was what I wanted also.

'Fine, then,' I said. 'Helicopter at eleven-thirty.'

Watching his familiar back walk off to his ever-waiting Rolls, I called Bedford Lodge from my mobile phone and by persuasive perseverance got the staff to find Howard Tyler, who was in the bar.

'Just a word, Howard,' I said.

'Not more more script changes?' He was acidly sarcastic. script changes?' He was acidly sarcastic.

'No. Urn... simply a word of warning.'

'I don't need your words of warning.'

'Good, then. But... er... I just thought I might remind you, knowing how you feel, that you agreed not to bellyache about the film until after its release.'

'I'll say what I d.a.m.ned well please.'

'It's your privilege. I don't suppose you care about the penalties in your contract.'

'What penalties?'

'Most film contracts include them,' I said. 'I'm sure yours does. Film companies routinely seek ways to stop a disgruntled writer from sabotaging the whole film just because he or she dislikes the changes made to the original work. They put in clauses allowing themselves to recover substantial damages.'

After a lengthy pause Howard said, 'I never signed such a contract.'

'Fine, then, but you might check with your agent.'

'You're trying to frighten me!' he complained.

'I'm just suggesting you might want to be careful.'

Silence. Howard simply put down his receiver. So much for tactful advice!

True to his intention, Nash did make d.a.m.ned sure that we completed the enquiry room shots that day, even if not until past eight in the evening. In want of a shower and a reviving drink, I drove back to Bedford Lodge and found waiting for me a long fax from O'Hara, starting with the Daily Cable Daily Cable obituary. obituary.

Rupert Visborough's life was dedicated to serving his country, the neighbourhood and the Sport of Kings. Commissioned into the Scots Guards, he retired with the rank of major to enter local politics in his home county of Cambridgeshire. Many committees benefited from his expert chairmanship, including...

The list was long, virtuous and unexciting.

A landowner, he was elected a member of the Jockey Club following the death of his father, Sir Ralph Visborough, knighted for his patronage of many animal charities.Highly respected by all who knew him, Rupert Visborough felt obliged to remove his name from a shortlist of those being considered for selection as parliamentary candidate, a consequence of his having inadvertedly been involved in an unexplained death closely touching his family.His wife's sister, married to Newmarket trainer Jackson Wells, was found hanged in one of the loose boxes in her husband's stable yard. Exhaustive police enquiries failed to find either a reason for suicide, or any motive or suspect for murder. Jackson Wells maintained his innocence throughout. The Jockey Club, conducting its own private enquiry, concluded there was no justification for withdrawing Wells's licence to train. Rupert Visborough, present at the enquiry, was justifiably bitter at the negative impact of the death on his own expectations.Reports that Jackson Wells's wife was entertaining lovers unknown to her husband could not be substantiated. Her sister Visborough's wife described the dead woman as 'fey' and 'a day-dreamer'. She said that as she and her sister had not been close she could offer no useful suggestions.Who knows what Rupert Visborough might not have achieved in life had these events not happened? Conjecture that he himself knew more of the facts behind the tragedy than he felt willing to disclose clung to his name despite his strongest denials. The death of his sister-in-law is unresolved to this day.Visborough died last Wednesday of a cerebral haemorrhage, aged 76, with his great potential sadly unfulfilled.He is survived by his wife, and by their son and daughter.

O'Hara had handwritten across the bottom, 'Pious load of s.h.i.t! No one on the paper knows who wrote it. Their obits often come in from outside.'

The pages of fax continued, however.

O'Hara's handwriting stated, 'This paragraph appeared in the Cable Cable's irreverent gossip column on the same day as the obituary.'

Secrets going to grave in the Visborough family? It seems Rupert (76), Jockey Club member, dead on Wednesday of a stroke, never discovered how his sister-in-law hanged twenty-three years ago in who-dunnit circs. Bereaved husband, Jackson Wells, now remarried and raising rape near Oxford, had 'no comment' re the Visborough demise. Answers to the 23-year-old mystery must must exist. Send us info. exist. Send us info.

O'Hara's handwriting: 'The Cable got about 6 6 replies, all no good. End of story as far as they are concerned. But at great expense they searched their microfilmed records and found these accounts, filed and printed at the time of the hanging.' replies, all no good. End of story as far as they are concerned. But at great expense they searched their microfilmed records and found these accounts, filed and printed at the time of the hanging.'

The first mention had earned a single minor paragraph: 'Newmarket trainer's wife hanged'.

For almost two weeks after that there had been daily revelations, many along the lines of 'did she jump or was she pushed?' and equally many about the unfairness and personal bitterness of the nipping in the bud effect of Visborough's ambitions for a political career.

A hanging in the family, it seemed, had discouraged not only racehorse owners; the blight had spread beyond Jackson Wells to canva.s.sers and prospective voters.

The story had extinguished itself from lack of fuel. The last mention of Jackson Wells's wife announced untruthfully, 'The police expect to make an arrest within a few days'. And after that, silence.

The basic question remained unanswered why why did she hang? did she hang?

I had dinner and went to bed and dreamed about them, Visborough as Cibber, his cuckolding wife as the pretty actress Silva, Nash as Jackson Wells and the fey, hanged woman as a wisp of muslin, a blowing curtain by the window.

No insight. No inspiration. No solution.

CHAPTER 5.

Delays plagued the going-out-to-exercise scene the next morning. One of the horses, feeling fractious, dumped his lad and kicked one of the camera-operating crew. Light bulbs failed in mid-shot. One of the stable lads loudly asked a silly question while the cameras were rolling, and a sound engineer, who should have known better, strolled, smoking, into the next take.

Nash, emerging from the house, forgot to bring with him the crash helmet he was supposed to put on before he mounted. He flicked his fingers in frustration and retraced his steps.

By the time we finally achieved a printable result it was no longer dawn or anywhere near it. Moncrieff, cursing, juggled relays of coloured filters to damp down the exuberant sun. I looked at my watch and thought about the helicopter.

'Once more,' I shouted generally. 'And for Christ's sake, get it right. Don't come back, go on out to exercise. Everyone ready?'

'Cameras rolling,' Moncrieff said.

I yelled, 'Action', and yet again the lads led their long-suffering charges out of the loose boxes, hauled themselves into the saddle, formed a straggly line and skittered out of the gate. Nash, following them, forgot to look up at the window.

I yelled, 'Cut' and said to Moncrieff, 'Print.'

Nash came back swearing.

'Never mind,' I said. 'We'll cut it in. Would you ride out again and turn and look up after after you're through the gate, as if the other horses had gone out of shot ahead of you? We'll also do a close shot of that look.' you're through the gate, as if the other horses had gone out of shot ahead of you? We'll also do a close shot of that look.'

'Right now?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Now, because of having the same light. And how about a touch of exasperation with the wife?'

The close shot of the exasperation proved well worth the extra time taken in raising a camera high. Even Moncrieff smiled.

All Nash said was, 'I hope the Doncaster stewards wait lunch.'

He whisked off in the Rolls but when I followed a minute or two later I found him still standing in the hotel lobby reading a newspaper, rigidly concentrated.