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going if he was held up. It was all utter garbage yet the stewards seemed to accept it. Maybe he believed it himself but I’ll tell you now he won’t be riding old Garrick next time out.” He stopped and blushed slightly as he realized what he’d just said. “No, I suppose he won’t anyway.”
    â€œWhat did the owner say?”
    â€œSilly old fool. It was his idea to ask Swinton to ride the horsein the first place. Thought it gave him some sort of kudos to have the champion jockey riding his horse. Stupid nonsense. And it’s not the first time I blame Swinton for not winning on one of my horses.”
    â€œExplain,” I said.
    â€œAbout three weeks ago, he rode a novice hurdler for me at Doncaster, horse called Perambulator. In my opinion, Swinton got the tactics all wrong and left it far too late at the end to make his run. Beaten by a head, we were, but Pram was the fastest finisher by a streak. He’d have won if the post had been just a couple of yards farther away. He should have won that race, easy.” There was real bitterness in his voice and I wondered how much he had gambled and lost.
    â€œBut things like that happen in racing all the time,” I said.
    â€œWell, they shouldn’t. Not when you’ve paid the extra to have the maestro riding for you.” His tone was sarcastic and clearly reflected what had been said to him, probably by Dave Swinton himself.
    â€œExtra?” I asked.
    â€œYeah. The extra cash he demands to ride one of your horses.”
    â€œHow much extra?” I asked.
    â€œA jump jockey’s fee is just over a hundred and sixty pounds for each ride. But if you want D. Swinton in the saddle, it’d cost you the same again in readies. He even has the nerve to call it a present—
Let’s just call it a gift, shall we?
he’d say.”
    I wondered if those were the “gifts” Dave had been referring to when he’d been talking about his taxes.
    â€œAnd I’ll tell you another thing,” Jason Butcher said, looking around him to check that no one else was listening, “racing will be much better off without him.”
    Unlike nearly everyone else, Jason Butcher was obviously not a fan of the deceased champion jockey, if indeed it was Dave Swinton dead in the burning Mercedes.
    â€”
    I WATCHED from the grandstand as Jason Butcher’s horse just failed to win the first race, beaten in the mud by a fast-finishing animal carrying fifteen pounds less weight.
    The trainer wasn’t happy. He stood in the space reserved for second, bunching his fists and looking daggers toward the jockey. He was someone who undoubtedly always blamed the pilot rather than the machine. Not that he was alone. Many punters are convinced that it is the horse’s doing when it wins but the jockey’s fault when it loses.
    I went in search of another trainer, Thomas Cheek, who trained Chiltern Line, the horse that had failed to win under Dave Swinton at Ludlow due to being boxed in on the rails. He had a runner later in the day in the feature race.
    I found him sitting with an elderly couple at a table in the Owners & Trainers Bar.
    â€œThomas Cheek?” I asked.
    â€œTom,” he said.
    â€œMy name is Jeff Hinkley. I work for the BHA.” I showed him my credentials. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    He read the word INVESTIGATOR printed on the card and, as was always the case with everyone, he wasn’t too happy.
    â€œWhat about?”
    I looked at his two companions.
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said. “I’ve nothing to hide from Mr. and Mrs. Valdemon. They own Peach of a Day that runs in the fourth.”
    â€œI want to ask you about the running of Chiltern Line in a handicap chase at Ludlow on November nineteenth.”
    â€œWhat about it?” he asked. “He finished second behind Taximan.”
    I nodded. “I watched the race video. Were you