certainly down to run, but Filmer himself almost never went to the midland courses of Nottingham, Leicester or Wolverhampton. He had definite preferences in racecourses, as in so much else: always a creature of habit.
I made no attempt to shadow him closely, as it wasn't necessary: before the following race he would be down in the parade ring to watch his horse walk round and I could catch him up there. I watched him conclude his bet and walk away to climb the stands for the race about to start, and as far as I could see he was alone, which also was unusual, as either the girlfriend or the male companion was normally in obsequious attendance.
The race began and I watched it with interest. The chatty apprentice wasn't riding in it himself, but the stable that employed him had a runner. The runner started third favourite and finished third last. I switched my gaze to Collie Goodboy, and found him smiling. A common, sad, fraudulent sequence that did racing no good.
Filmer stepped down from the stands and headed in the direction of the saddling boxes, to supervise, as he always did, the final preparation for his horse's race. I drifted along in his wake to make sure, but that was indeed where he went. From there to the parade ring, from there to place a bet with the same bookmaker as before, from there to the stands to watch his horse race. From there to the unsaddling enclosure allotted to the horse that finished second.
Filmer took his defeat graciously, making a point as always of congratulating the winning owner, in this case a large middle-aged lady who looked flushed and flattered.
Filmer left the unsaddling enclosure with a smirk of self-satisfaction and was immediately confronted by a young man who tried to thrust a briefcase into his hand.
Julius Apollo's face turned from smug to fury quicker than Shergar won the Derby, as Paul Shacklebury would have said. Filmer wouldn't take the case and he practically spat at the offerer, his black head going forward like a striking cobra. The young man with the briefcase retreated ultra-nervously and in panic ran away, and Filmer, regaining control of himself, began looking around in the general direction of stewards and pressmen to see if any of them had noticed. He visibly sighed with relief that none of them showed any sign of it-and he hadn't looked my way at all.
I followed the demoralized young man, who still held on to the briefcase. He made straight for the men's cloakroom, stayed there for a fair time and came out looking pale.
Filmer's effect on people's guts, I reflected, would put any laxative to shame.
The shaken youth with the briefcase then made his nervous way to a rendezvous with a thin, older man who was waiting just outside the exit gate, biting his nails. When the thin man saw the briefcase still in the nervous youth's possession he looked almost as furious as Filmer had done, and a strong argument developed in which one could read the dressing-down in the vigorous chopping gestures, even if one couldn't hear the words.
Thin man poked nervous man several times sharply in the chest. Nervous man's shoulders drooped. Thin man turned away and walked off deep into the car park.
Nervous man brought the briefcase with him back through the gate and into the nearest bar, and I had to hang around for a long time in the small crowd there before anything else happened. The scattered clientele was watching the television: nervous man shuffled from foot to foot and sweated, and kept a sharp look-out at the people passing by outside in the open air. Then, some time after Filmer's second runner had tried and (according to the closed-circuit commentary) lost, Filmer himself came past, tearing up betting tickets and not looking pleased.
Nervous man shot out from his waiting position just inside the door of the sheltering bar and offered the briefcase again, and this time Filmer took it, but in fierce irritation and with another sharp set of glances around him. He saw nothing to disturb him. He was leaving after the fifth of the six races and all forms of authority were still engaged to his rear. He gripped the case's handle and strode purposefully out on his way to his car.
Nervous man shuffled a bit on the spot a bit more and then followed Filmer through the exit gate and into the car park. I tagged along again and saw both of them still making for their transport, though in different directions. I followed nervous man, not Filmer, and saw him get into the front passenger seat of a car already occupied by thin man, who still looked cross. They didn't set off immediately and I had time to walk at a steady pace past the rear of their car on the way to my own which was parked strategically, as ever, near the gate to the road, for making quick following getaways. I memorized their number plate in case I later lost them: and out on the road, comfortably falling into place behind them, I telephoned Millington.
I told him about the briefcase and read him the number plate still ahead in my sight.
'The car's going north, though,' I said. 'How far do you want me to go?'
'What time's your flight tomorrow?'
'Noon, from Heathrow. But I have to go home first to pick up my gear and passport.'
He thought for a few moments. 'You'd better decide for yourself. If he gets on the motorway to Scotland… well, don't go.'
'All right.'
'Very interesting,' Millington said, 'that he didn't want to be seen in public accepting that briefcase.'
'Very.'
'Anything special about it?'
'As far as I could see,' I said, 'it was black, polished, possibly crocodile, with gold clasps.'
'Well, well,' Millington said vaguely. 'I'll get back to you with that car number.'
The thin man's car aimed unerringly for the motorway in the direction of Scotland. I decided to keep on going at least until Millington called back, which he did with impressive speed, telling me that my quarry was registered to I. J. Horfitz, resident of Doncaster, address supplied.
'All right,' I said, 'I'll go to Doncaster.' An hour and a bit ahead, I thought, with plenty of time to return.
'Does that name Horfitz ring any bells with you?' Millington asked.
'None at all,' I said positively. 'And by the way, you know that promising young apprentice of Pete Shaw's? All that talent? The silly young fool passed some verbal info to a new character on the racecourse who turned out to be writing the book for Collie Goodboy. Collie Goodboy thought it good news.'
'What was it, do you know?'
'Pete Shaw had a runner in the second race, third favourite, finished nearly last. The apprentice knew the score, though he wasn't riding it.'
'Huh,' Millington said. 'I'll put the fear of God into the lot of them, Pete Shaw, the owner, the jockey, the apprentice and Collie Goodboy. Stir them up and warn them. I suppose,' he said as an afterthought, 'you didn't get any photos? We haven't any actual proof?'
'Not really. I took one shot of the apprentice talking to Collie's man, but they had their backs to me. One of Collie's man with. One of Collie s board with the generous odds.'
'Better than nothing,' he said judiciously 'It'll give them all an unholy fright. The innocent ones will be livid and sack the guilty, like they usually do. Clean their own house. Save us a job. And we'll keep a permanent eye on that stupid apprentice. Ring me when you get to Doncaster '
'OK. And I took some more photos One of the nervous young man with the briefcase, one of him with the thin man… er… I. J. Horfitz possibly, I suppose, and one of Filmer with the briefcase, though I'm not sure if that one will be very clear, I had almost no time and I was quite far away, and I was using the cigarette lighter camera, it's less conspicuous.'
'All right. We need that film before you go. Um… er… you'd better give me a ring when you're on the way back, and I'll have thought of somewhere we can meet tonight. Right?'
'Yes, 'I said. 'Right.'
'This Horfitz person, what did he look like?'
'Thin, elderly, wore a dark overcoat and a black trilby, and glasses. Looked ready for a funeral, not the races.'
Millington grunted in what seemed to me to be recognition.
'Do you know him?' I asked.
'He was before your time. But yes, I know him. Ivor Horfitz. It must be him. We got him warned off for life five years ago.'
'What for?'
'It's a long story. I'll tell you later. And I don't think after all you need to spend all that time going to Doncaster. We can always find him, if we want to. Turn round at the next exit and come back to London, and I'll meet you in that pub at Victoria. Not the snack-bar; the pub.'
