7

Matt liked Hereford racecourse; it was a friendly, country course where there was racing all year round. The squareish track was flat and suited horses with a turn of foot, which exactly described the two runners that Brewer was sending there on the day following Matt's return from Sedgefield. Both Brewer and Leonard were attending the meeting, and Matt travelled to the course with the trainer, who informed him that his boss was not in the best frame of mind following Matt's announcement about the sponsorship deal.

'And he's not happy that you're riding Kandahar Prince again, either,' Leonard finished.

'Oh God! Not that again! I've been riding him for years and Plumpton was the first time he's ever fallen with me. It's not as if it was even his fault, poor sod! If Brewer had his way, I'd be wrapped up in cotton wool and only taken out when he had a runner, which would defeat the object anyway, because I wouldn't be race fit.'

'Of course you wouldn't,' Leonard agreed. 'That's what I've told him, God knows how many times! He can't expect you to pass up the ride on a favourite, either, just to suit him – it's ridiculous!'

'He knows that, really,' Matt said, as the trainer's Volvo accelerated out of the motorway slip road. 'He's just too bloody controlling to let it go.'

By the time they turned into the owners' and trainers' car park at the racecourse, large drops of rain had begun to splash onto the windscreen, and Leonard rooted amongst the clutter on the back seat to locate a large golf umbrella, under which they made their way to the racecourse buildings.

Matt's first ride of the day was on a horse of Doogie McKenzie's – Tranter, a big angular chestnut with a long, honest head and ears that had a tendency to flop sideways. Doogie wasn't in the habit of telling Matt how to ride his horses, unless there were very specific instructions, and, as he had two runners in the race, he greeted Matt when the jockeys entered the paddock and then left him, in favour of looking after the less experienced lad who was riding his other horse.

Matt wasn't bothered. He stood in the driving rain watching the runners circle, some with heads and tails low, some dancing sideways to try and turn their rumps to the wind, and thought that, even on a pig of a day like today, he would rather be doing his job than any other he could think of.

'Ah, Matt. Lousy weather, isn't it?' a voice commented in his ear, and he turned to find Lord Kenning at his shoulder.

'At least it's not cold, sir,' he replied, wondering what had prompted the man to approach him and trying to quell the distasteful images that Tara's revelations now conjured up.

'Just had a word with Doogie. He says the horse has been working well, so we should have quite a good chance here.'

Matt's brain changed gear. He hadn't realised that the horse was Kenning's. The ride had been arranged by his agent, and, with his mind on other things, for the first time in his career, Matt hadn't done his usual pre-race research in the formbook. Not that he would have turned Tranter down – a ride was a ride, as long as the horse wasn't a serial non-finisher – and he trusted Harper not to book him anything too dangerous.

'He looks a useful sort, sir.' It was the best that could honestly be said of the chestnut at first glance.

'Yes, I think he is. He's got a nice turn of foot, but he'll stop if he sees the light too soon. Keep him handy, tuck him in until a furlong or two out, and then send him on. Got that?'

'Yes, sir.' Matt eyed the horse doubtfully. Somehow he didn't have the look of a sprinter but, in reality, it was difficult to tell, and Kenning was an experienced owner who wasn't accustomed to having his judgement questioned. 'Don't think I've seen him around – have you had him long?'

'Bought him in the summer. Came from Grant's yard, up in Perth.'

That would explain it.

The bell sounded, signalling time for the jockeys to mount, and Matt excused himself from Kenning's presence and walked across to Tranter. The horse was being walked round by Doogie's travelling head lad, a man Matt knew well from his days riding for the yard. With practised ease, he flipped the waterproof sheet back onto the chestnut's rump and swiftly legged Matt up into the dry saddle.

'All right, Matt?'

'Yeah, fine thanks, Pete.' Matt's feet found the stirrups. 'So what about this boy? Kenning reckons he needs to be covered up.'

Pete twisted to look up at him, his face registering the equivalent of a shrug.

'I wouldn't know. He's been working OK, but he hasn't shown anything special. This is his first run for us.'

After a couple of circuits of the paddock, the horses were led out onto the track and, with a slap on the neck, Pete let Tranter go. The horse accelerated willingly enough into a long-striding canter, head down into the wind and rain, and they made their way to the two-mile start.

Out on the course, the rain became even heavier and, driven by an ever-strengthening wind, was soon lashing horizontally across the course. After what seemed like an interminable time circling in front of one of the hurdles, getting wetter and wetter, the runners were called through to the steeplechase course and the race got underway.

Bearing Lord Kenning's advice in mind, Matt slotted Tranter into third or fourth place on the rails and prepared to bide his time. The horse didn't give him the feel of an animal that was raring to get to the head of the field, rather, he felt content to hack round with the masses, jumping efficiently and with care. He'd make a super hunter when he'd finished his track career, Matt thought, squinting behind his goggles as mud from the leaders' hooves hit him in the face and chest.

Passing the stands and the winning post for the first time, the field swung round the second bend and away towards the open ditch and the water. Tranter cleared both with no fuss and soldiered on, though Matt winced in sympathy as he saw Mikey Copperfield's horse go down heavily in a tangle of legs. Five fences and three bends later, they were approaching the last with less than two furlongs to go and the chestnut was still holding his position steadily, although Matt had moved him off the rails, aware that several runners were ranging up on the outside.

Tranter flew the last with his best jump of the race, and, as the field spread out in the final charge to the line, Matt pulled a fresh pair of goggles into place, switched his whip, eased the horse out to the left, and waited for the promised surge as the chestnut saw daylight.

It didn't come.

With the leader a length and a half ahead and three or four other contenders picking up speed around him, Matt sat down and rode hard for the finishing post, but to no avail; Tranter plugged on gamely, but could do no better than sixth place.

Matt patted the steaming chestnut neck and let him slow down gradually. The animal didn't feel especially tired; in fact, he felt as though he could have gone round again with no problem. In sixth place, he had finished with more than half the field behind him, but Matt was frustrated, feeling that, if he'd followed his instincts and taken the running on from maybe half a circuit out, he might very well have managed, if not to win, then at least to have improved his position by three or four places.

Pete came out onto the track to meet him as he trotted the horse back towards the stands.

'Looks like the trip was a bit short for him,' he said, as he reached for the chestnut's rein.

'Yeah, I'd say he was an out-and-out stayer,' Matt agreed. 'Well done, Bully!' he called, as the winner rode by.

In the unsaddling area, Doogie came to meet him as he undid Tranter's girths and slid the saddle off.

'Left it a bit late there, Matt,' he said, slanting a look at him from under his bushy white brows. 'Not like you to get it wrong. Kenning's not happy.'

'Well, that's rich! It was him who told me the horse needed to be covered up.'

'Are you sure? He told me he was happy to leave it in your hands.'

Matt stared at the trainer, thinking back. Was it possible that he could have misunderstood Kenning's instructions? Surely not, he'd been quite specific – cover him up for a late run.

'Perhaps we got our wires crossed,' he suggested. It went against the grain not to fight his corner, but over the years he had learned that, at certain times, and with certain people, it was better to give in gracefully, even if justice hadn't been served.

'Didn't you look at his form?' Doogie asked, sponging the chestnut's heaving flanks. 'He's a stayer. Normally a front runner.'

Matt shook his head guiltily.

'Sorry, Doogie. I've been kind of caught up in this business with Jamie.'

'Hm.' The trainer turned to him, water dripping from the sponge. 'Look Matt, I'm sorry for the lad – as sorry as anyone – but make sure he doesn't drag your career down with his. I read that bit in the paper the other day and, I can tell you, it makes me uneasy. Owners want to be sure their jockey is concentrating 100 per cent on the matter in hand.'

'And you know I do,' Matt stated.

'Ah yes, I know. But you're laying yourself open to criticism. When owners are paying nearly twenty grand a year just to keep their horses in training, it's so much easier to question the jockey's concentration or commitment than accept that the horse had an off day or just plain isn't good enough, and you're giving them just the fuel they need.'

The first person Matt bumped into as he headed back to the weighing room was Josh Harper, his agent.

'Ah, Matt. I was looking for you.' Harper, an ex-jockey himself, was short, growing stout, and hailed from Glasgow. 'I've got you a ride in the last. The doc has stood Copperfield down after that fall, so I had a word with Fliss Truman and she's happy to put you up on Mr Blue Shoes. He's got a good each-way chance.'

'Thanks. Listen, Josh, did you go chasing that ride on Tranter, or did Doogie come to you?'

'Neither. Kenning rang me yesterday and asked for you, specifically. Said it was the animal's first run for Doogie and he trusted you to get a feel for the horse. Why do you ask?'

'Just wondered. I don't suppose he'll ask for me again. Apparently he's just bent Doogie's ear about me not concentrating on the job.'

'Awkward sod! I've dealt with him before. He treats me like I've just crawled out from under a stone. I shouldn't worry. We can do without him, although, having said that, I think you're riding a couple more for him at the weekend.'

'Or not,' Matt observed.

'Yeah, maybe, but I expect he's just letting off a bit of steam to cover up the fact that he's bought a very ordinary horse.' He paused, looking over Matt's shoulder. 'Ah, looks like someone else wants you . . .'

The someone else turned out to be Casey McKeegan, and Matt cursed inwardly. All he wanted at that moment was to get showered and changed, check on Mikey in the medical room, and concentrate on riding Charlie Brewer's horse in the next race.

Something of Matt's irritation must have shown in his face, for, as he turned to meet Casey, her expression became all at once defensive.

'I know you're busy, you don't have to say it. I just thought you'd want to know. I've done a little info gathering on our friend Lord Kenning.'

'Oh – right.' Casting a hasty look around, Matt steered Casey to a quieter spot. 'What've you found?'

'OK: age, sixty-three; born in Esher, Surrey; father Brigadier Kenning; mother the society "It Girl" of the day. Our Kenning did the usual stuff for a toff – public school, Cambridge etc, and then, not surprisingly I guess, on to officer training at Sandhurst. Seems he wasn't cut out for army life, though – he must have been a big disappointment to the Brigadier – because he only made lieutenant. Married late, no children, on the boards of a couple of companies and one or two charities, including one his father set up to help ex-servicemen reintegrate into civilian life. All very worthy and rumours of possible honours in the offing, so he'd be wanting to keep his nose clean, wouldn't he? Anyway, I had a dig around in the archives and found a couple of photos of him where he was pictured with a car, and both times they were Jags; not silver ones – but both of them the current year's registration, so I'd say he changes his motor fairly regularly, wouldn't you? Also – and this is the good bit – guess what his middle name is . . .'

'Um . . . Moses?'

'Maurice!' she said triumphantly. 'Close enough, wouldn't you say? Maurice – Mosie. And I asked our senior editor if he ever remembered any talk about Kenning and Sophie Bradford, and he basically told me that, if I wanted a long and glittering career in journalism, I should leave that particular rumour well alone. Which I think points to his lordship doing some pretty heavy leaning, don't you?'

Matt agreed that it did, and he also had to admit, if only to himself, that Ms McKeegan was turning out to be a far more useful contact than he'd expected.

In the event, Brewer's horse proved as big a disappointment as Kenning's had done, trailing home near the back of the field. Matt was at a loss to understand it, unless it was just a combination of the weather and a fast pace. The horse was young and had pulled early on, but hitting a hurdle or two seemed to knock the stuffing out of him.

'He'll maybe improve with a run or two under his belt,' he told the businessman, who had come round to the unsaddling area intent on a postmortem. Brewer grunted, regarding the horse as if he'd delivered a personal insult, and Matt as if he'd engineered the defeat on purpose.

The rain didn't bother Kandahar Prince in the next, where he made up for his recent fall by winning by three lengths, a fact which didn't improve Brewer's mood at all.

Making his way back to the weighing room after the presentation, Matt found Kendra's brother, Deacon, walking alongside him. He seemed more animated than usual.

'Is that all you get?' he asked, gesturing to the cut-glass ashtray Matt had received as winning jockey.

'Yeah, useful if you don't smoke, isn't it?'

'That's pathetic! I thought it'd be a cup or something. It's almost an insult.'

'Depends on the race,' Matt said. 'It goes from the sublime to the ridiculous. I've got a couple of huge silver cups and a bowl at home, but sometimes it's just a book token. Actually, I preferred the book token, at least it was useful and didn't have to be dusted.'

'Can't you get Kendra to do that?' Deacon said, with the blithe disregard of a sibling.

'We share,' Matt told him. 'I didn't know you were coming today. Did you come up with your dad?' It was rare for Deacon to attend a race meeting.

'Yeah, and my shadow's here somewhere, too.'

'Your shadow?'

'Niall bleeding Delafield. I've shaken him off at the moment, because I went down to the stables with John. Niall won't go near the horses – he's allergic – but no doubt he'll soon catch up.'

'Does he follow you everywhere?'

'Pretty much – when I leave the house,' Deacon said moodily.

Matt glanced at him, thoughtfully. He was unclear as to exactly what role Delafield fulfilled. Did Brewer imagine Deacon was in particular danger of being kidnapped? If that was the case – why him and not his sisters? Was it because Deacon was the son and heir? But any potential kidnapper who'd taken the time to study the businessman would know that he was just as passionately devoted to his daughters. Matt had spoken to Kendra about it once, but she seemed almost as much in the dark as he was.

'I think Daddy's had some threats, or something,' she'd said vaguely. 'He took Deke out of uni suddenly, halfway through his course, and then went abroad with him. It was just after that that Delafield turned up.'

'Well, I'm surprised your brother puts up with it. A lad of his age wants a bit of freedom, not to feel that his every move is being watched and reported back to his father.'

'Mm, I suppose so. But Deke's very sweet-natured, you know. He does flare up occasionally, but, on the whole, I think he's too lazy to rebel.'

Now, coming to a halt outside the weighing room, Matt turned to Deacon.

'So why d'you put up with it?'

'Oh, I don't know . . .' He looked a little uncomfortable. 'I don't have much choice, really.'

'Of course you do! You're what – nineteen? Nearly twenty? Old enough to take charge of your own life, surely?'

'Yeah – I guess Dad's just worried about me. Anyway, Niall's OK most of the time; he's a pretty cool bloke, really. He used to be in the army – special forces. And it's a bit like being a rock star – having a bodyguard.'

Matt shrugged.

'Well, it's your life. Look, I must go, and I'm afraid you can't come in here. It's jockeys and officials only.'

He started to turn away, but Deacon put out a hand to stop him.

'You think I'm scared to move out – I'm not, you know. It's just different in a family like ours. Dad's made a lot of money, but he's probably trodden on a few toes along the way – people that might want to get back at him.'

'But he doesn't have a bodyguard following him around all day,' Matt pointed out.

Apparently at a loss, Deacon just stared at him, and Matt felt a little guilty for rocking the boat. After all, it wasn't his boat to rock, when all was said and done.

'I'm sorry. It's none of my business,' he said then. 'Must go. See you later.'

He turned away and came face to face with the muscular bulk and gold earring of Niall Delafield himself. This time the white teeth weren't in evidence.

'Matt.'

It was said with a slight nod, and it was all that was said, but Matt got the strong impression that Delafield had overheard some of the foregoing conversation and he wasn't happy.

'Niall,' he said, similarly cool. 'Must go, I've got a horse to ride.'

'Yes, we've all got our jobs to do,' Delafield said, turning his body just enough to let Matt pass.

In the weighing room, Matt changed into Brewer's purple, gold, and orange colours once again, hoping – for everyone's sakes, not least his own – that he could coax a good run out of Tulip Time in the next race.

Presently, weighed out, and sitting by his peg waiting for the call to the paddock, Matt found himself wondering how Kendra was faring with Jamie. Normally, the moratorium on using mobile phones until racing was over didn't bother him over much. In fact, some days the peace was welcome, but today it was decidedly frustrating. He wondered if he could get Harry to call for him.

'It's still cats and friggin' dogs out there,' someone said disgustedly. 'You wouldn't happen to have a spare pair of goggles you're not using, by any chance?'

Matt looked up. Rollo Gallagher was standing in front of him, tucking his silks into his breeches.

'Yeah, of course.' Matt rooted in his kitbag and found an extra pair. 'Have you seen Mikey lately?'

'Yeah. He's OK. The doc's let him go, but he won't be riding anymore this arvo. Razor's picked up his ride in this one. Reckons he'll make the running. Looks like it'll start favourite, too, the jammy git.'

'Jockeys, please!' The call came from an official by the door, and, with a certain amount of grumbling about the weather, eighteen jockeys headed, in shuffling single file, out of the weighing room, through The Scales, and into the rain.

Brewer was in the paddock watching with John Leonard as Tulip Time stalked round with ears back and head held low. Matt's heart sank. Tulip Time – a head-shy horse – was never the easiest of customers, as he'd warned Jamie the previous week, but today he looked to be in a really foul mood, occasionally aiming a nip at his handler's leg as they walked.

'I hope you haven't put your shirt on him,' he joked, as he joined the two men. 'He doesn't look a happy bunny.'

'I expect he'll be all right when he gets going,' Brewer said. 'Apart from the favourite, there's not much here that should trouble him.'

Matt wished he shared the businessman's confidence.

'He's got the ability, it's the mindset that lets him down. He can be a real bugger when he's in a mood.'

'Well, it's up to you to sweet-talk him then, isn't it?' Brewer suggested, and Matt could tell that he still hadn't forgiven him for winning on Kandahar Prince.

By the time the starter dropped his flag, the weather had improved a little, but, unfortunately, Tulip Time's mood hadn't. He jumped off willingly enough, though, and Matt was able to settle him on the heels of the favourite, where he kept him for the first mile, content to bide his time and hoping that the horse would run himself out of the sulks.

As the field swept round the second to last bend, with four furlongs and three fences to go, Razor's horse slowed a little and the rest of the runners began to bunch up, until there were two horses running outside Tulip Time and one on his inside.

With hands and heels, Matt pushed his horse to move ahead of this first group of runners, knowing that, if he was to drop back, even as far as the flanks of the other horses, Tulip Time might be put off by the waving whips of their jockeys.

The horse responded, pulling ahead of the others to take the next fence half a length clear and maintaining that lead all the way to the second last. As they turned into the final bend with just one fence left to jump, Tulip Time flicked his left ear back and, sneaking a look over his shoulder, Matt saw the favourite gaining ground on his outside, ridden hard by Razor. His own efforts to coax more speed from Tulip Time were rewarded by a flattening of his ears and much tail swishing. Clearly Brewer's horse was running at his limit.

The two horses, now battling side by side, were bearing down on the last fence and, as they drew steadily nearer to the dark mass of birch, Razor's horse drew slightly ahead and the tip of his whip flicked upward just inches from Tulip Time's face.

Instantly, the horse's rhythm faltered as he threw his head up, and the jolt of his shortened stride shook Matt, loosening his grip and making his teeth rattle.

'Watch your whip!' he shouted, but Razor apparently didn't hear, because his horse drifted closer.

Matt swore. With the last fence just yards distant, Tulip Time was running the rail and – unless he could pull him off it – would be squeezed into the white wing of the jump.

'Give me some sodding room!' he yelled furiously, and this time the other jockey responded, correcting his position and allowing Matt to do the same.

Thundering towards the fence, Tulip Time's muzzle was once more level with the toe of the other jockey's boot and, unbelievably, when they were just three strides out, Razor's whip flicked out again, stinging the animal across the nose.

Instantly, Tulip Time threw his head up, hitting Matt in the face, and veered sharply to the right, meeting four feet six of stiff brush on completely the wrong stride.

Dazed, Matt clung to a handful of mane, peering through watering eyes as the horse made a valiant attempt to clear the fence, landing with his hind legs in the top of the birch and kicking himself free. The effort left the horse almost at a standstill on the landing side – which, while it allowed Matt to regain his seat, also placed them firmly in the path of the rest of the field, following just a split second behind.

There was no time to do anything more than gather up his reins before the others came, rising over the fence in a sweating, straining wave of horseflesh, the nearest landing so impossibly close that impact seemed a certainty.

Someone swore, Tulip Time flinched, and then they were past, their pounding hooves showering Matt with wet mud and turf.

As the other horses headed away towards the finishing line, herd instinct kicked in and Tulip Time pulled himself together and set off in pursuit.

Matt, functioning mainly on autopilot, shifted his weight forward over the horse's withers, grabbing a fresh handful of mane while he fought the whirling dizziness behind his eyes.

'You all right, Mojo?'

A hand rocked his shoulder gently and Matt turned his head, frowning as he focussed with some difficulty on Rollo's familiar features.

'Yeah, fine,' he answered automatically.

Tulip Time had slowed to a jog, and Matt realised that there were horses all around him, breathing hard after their exertions. At some point they must have passed the finishing post, but barely had Matt's muzzy brain registered this fact when Tulip Time, following the general tide of movement, swung round on his haunches and headed back at a canter.

Matt swayed drunkenly in the saddle, only his grip on the mane preventing him from being dumped unceremoniously on the turf. As he caught up with the other runners once more, Tulip Time slowed and a hand reached for his rein.

'Are you okay, Matt?' John Leonard was looking up at him with some concern. 'Looks like he caught you in the face.'

'Bloody Razor!' Matt muttered. 'Waving his fucking whip around!'

Leonard led the horse off the track towards the unsaddling area.

'Razor did that? Are you sure?'

Matt put a hand up to his face and it came away thinly streaked with blood.

'No. The horse did it. But he threw his head up because Razor hit him in the face.'

'It happens,' the trainer said philosophically.

'He did it on purpose.'

Leonard glanced sharply at him, eyes narrowed.

'That's a hell of an allegation, Matt. Are you sure?'

'Yep. Twice.'

'So what do you want to do about it?'

Matt didn't know. He shook his head and then wished he hadn't as his vision whirled like the inside of a snow dome.

They entered the unsaddling area, where the horse came to a halt and Matt kicked his feet free of the stirrups and slid off, taking a quick step backward as his knees threatened to buckle.

Leonard put out a hand to steady him.

'Are you sure you're all right?'

Brewer wasn't anywhere to be seen, but Matt didn't know if that was a good sign or not.

'Yeah, give me a minute,' he said, but his reply was interrupted by the announcement of a Stewards' Enquiry.

'There you go – looks like you'll be able to have your say,' the trainer observed. 'But I'd take it easy, if I were you . . .'

He didn't enlarge on the comment, but Matt understood. The weighing-room community was, by and large, a close-knit one, and any jockey considering making an accusation of foul play should be pretty sure of his facts.

He slid the saddle off Tulip Time's sweaty back and laid the girth over the seat to carry it in.

'You all right with that?' Leonard asked.

Matt nodded. His head was clearing now and his legs regaining their strength, but, even so, he was glad to reach the weighing room and collapse onto the bench by his peg. A glance in the mirror on his way through had shown him a pale face with a darkening bruise on the bridge of his nose, but there was little blood in evidence, and, with no ride in the next, he felt confident that he'd be fit for his last two outings of the day.

'Matthew Shepherd and Geoffrey Hislop?' a voice called from the doorway. 'Upstairs, please. The stewards would like to see you.'

Matt looked up and raised a hand, recognising Chris Fairbrother, the Stipendiary Steward or 'Stipe', as the jockeys termed these particular officials. As Stipes went, Chris Fairbrother was generally liked, regarded by the jockeys as being reasonable and even-handed.

Following Fairbrother, Matt and Razor ascended the stairs to the stewards' room, where they were both left waiting outside like naughty schoolchildren outside the headmaster's office. Razor didn't volunteer any conversation, much less an apology, so Matt kept his thoughts to himself too, and, in due course, Fairbrother reappeared and invited them to step inside.

Inside the room, the three stewards were sat in a row behind a table. Opposite them was a large television screen upon which a replay of the relevant portion of the race was presently shown.

After everyone had been introduced, it was announced that they were there to look into possible interference between Razor's horse and Matt's on the last bend and the approach to the last fence. Over the next few minutes, they all watched the action on the screen from various angles and then Matt was asked to give his account of the incident, which he did, carefully keeping his anger hidden.

Next, Razor was asked for his view and obliged with wide-eyed innocence, saying he had carried his whip in his right hand because his horse had been showing a tendency to hang right and that he had had no idea that Tulip Time would react so violently to his actions.

'Bull!' Matt said explosively, in spite of his resolve to stay calm. 'With respect, sir, I've warned the lads, more than once, that Tulip Time is head shy and ultra-sensitive to whips.'

'Mr Shepherd! I must ask you to wait your turn,' Fairbrother cut in. 'You have already spoken; please let Mr Hislop have his say.'

'I honestly didn't know, sir,' Razor declared, with a convincing expression of earnest apology. 'I thought I was doing the right thing, trying to keep my horse straight.'

'And what do you say to Mr Shepherd's assertion that you actually hit his horse shortly before the last fence? We all saw how it swerved . . .'

'I'd be very surprised if I did, sir,' Razor said, still with that guileless expression.

Matt longed to wipe it off his face. He risked another interruption.

'Sir, I shouted to him – twice – to watch his whip, but he didn't take any notice.'

'I didn't hear you,' Razor said. 'What are you saying? That I did it on purpose?'

That's exactly what I'm saying, Matt wanted to say, but he gritted his teeth against the temptation.

A few moments later they were asked to leave the room whilst the stewards came to their decision.

As the door closed behind them, Razor shook his head, pityingly.

'You haven't got a chance, you know.'

Matt ignored him.

When they were called back, a few minutes later, it was to be told that the decision of the stewards was that, if interference had indeed taken place, it had been of an accidental nature. The Stipendiary Steward added that, as it was impossible to prove that Matt's horse would have beaten the favourite, the placings would remain unaltered and no further action would be taken.

Silently fuming, Matt joined Razor in thanking the stewards, and they filed out.

'Told you.' Razor was full of smug satisfaction. 'No hard feelings, eh?'

'Absolutely not,' Matt agreed, then leaned close as he passed. 'But, if you ever do anything like that again, I'll take you apart piece by miserable piece, and be damned to the stewards!'

He had the brief gratification of seeing Razor's self-satisfied expression falter, but, in truth, as soon as the words had left his lips, he regretted them. Falling out with the other jockey wasn't going to achieve anything useful, no matter how much support he could count on from the other lads in the weighing room. He couldn't imagine Razor ever being a friend, but he had an idea he'd make an uncomfortable enemy.