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Filmer bought horses occasionally at auction through an agent or a trainer but chiefly acquired them by deals struck in private； a perfectly proper procedure。 Any owner was always at liberty to sell his horses to anyone else。 The surprising thing about some of Filmer's acquisitions was that no one would have expected the former owner to sell the horse at all。
I had been briefed about him by Millington during my first few weeks in the Service； but then only as someone to be generally aware of； not as a number one priority。
'He leans on people；' Millington said。 'We're sure of it； but we don't know how。 He's much too fly to do anything where we can see him。 Don't think you'll catch him handing out bunches of money for information； nothing crude like that。 Look for people who're nervous when he's near； right？'
'Right。'
I had spotted a few of those。 Both of the trainers who trained his horses treated him with caution； and most of the jockeys who rode them shook his hand with their fingertips。 The Press； who knew they wouldn't answer questions； hardly bothered to ask them。 A deferential decorative girlfriend jumped when he said jump； and the male panion frequently in attendance fairly scuttled。 Yet there was nothing visibly boorish about his general manner at the races。 He smiled at appropriate moments； nodded congratulations to other owners in the winners' enclosures and patted his horses when they pleased him。
He was in person forty…eight； heavy； about five foot ten in height。 Millington said the weight was mostly muscle； as Filmer spent time three days a week raising a sweat in a gym。 Above the muscle there was a well…shaped head； large flat ears and thick black hair flecked with grey。 I hadn't been near enough to see the colour of his eyes； but Millington had them down as greenish brown。
Rather to Millington's annoyance I refused to follow Filmer about much。 For one thing； in the end he would have been certain to have spotted me； and for another it wasn't necessary。 Filmer was a creature of habit； moving from car to lunch to bookmaker to grandstand to paddock at foreseeable intervals。 At each track he had a favourite place to watch the races from； a favourite vantage point overlooking the parade ring and a favourite bar where hedrank lager mostly and plied the girlfriend with vodka。 He rented a private box at two racecourses and was on the waiting list at several more； where his aim seemed to be seclusion rather than the lavish entertainment of friends。
He had been born on the Isle of Man； that tax…haven rock out of sight of England in the stormy Irish Sea； and had been brought up in a munity stuffed with millionaires fleeing the fleecing taxes of the mainland。 His father had been a wily fixer admired for fleecing the fled。 Young Julius Apollo Filmer （his real name） had learned well and outstripped his father in rich pickings until he'd left home for wider shores； and that was the point； Millington said gloomily； at which they had lost him。 Filmer had turned up on racecourses sixteen or so years later giving his occupation as 'pany director' and maintaining a total silence about his source of considerable ine。
During the run…up to the conspiracy trial； the police had done their best to unravel his background further； but Julius Apollo knew a thing or two about off…shore panies and had stayed fortably ravelled。 He still officially lived on the Isle of Man； though he was never there for long。 During the Flat season he mostly divided his time between hotels in Newmarket and Paris； and in the winter he dropped entirely out of sight； as far as the Security Service was concerned。 Steeplechasing； the winter sport； never drew him。
During my first summer with the Service he had bought； to everyone's surprise； one of the most promising two…year…olds in the country。 Surprise； because the former owner； Ezra Gideon； was one of the naturals aristocrats of racing； a much respected elderly and extremely wealthy man who lived for his horses and delighted in their successes。 No one had been able to persuade him to say why he had parted with the best of his crop or for what price： he bore its subsequent high…flying autumn； its brilliant three…year…old season and its eventual multi…million…pound syndication for stud with an unvaryingly stony expression。
After Filmer's acquittal； Ezra Gideon had again sold him a two…year…old of great promise。 The Jockey Club mandarins begged Gideon practically on their knees to tell them why。 He said merely that it was a private arrangement： and since then he had not been seen on a racecourse。
On the day Derry Welfram died I drove homewards to London wondering yet again； as so many people had wondered so often； just what leverage Filmer had used on Gideon。 Blackmailers had gone largely out of business since adultery and homosexuality had been blown wide open； and one couldn't see old…fashioned upright Ezra Gideon as one of the newly fashionable brands of transgressor； an insider…trader or an abuser of children。 Yet without some overwhelming reason he would never have sold Filmer two such horses； denying himself what he most enjoyed in life。
Poor old man； I thought。 Derry Welfram or someone like that had got to him； as to the witnesses； as to Paul Shacklebury dead in his ditch。 Poor old man； too afraid of the consequences to let anyone help。
Before I reached home the telephone again purred in my car and I picked up the receiver to hear Millington's voice。
'The boss wants to see you；' he said。 'This evening at eight； usual place。 Any problem？'
'No；' I said。 'I'll be there。 Do you know。。。 er。。。 why？'
'I should think；' Millington said； 'because Ezra Gideon has shot himself。'
Chapter Two
The boss； Brigadier Valentine Catto； Director of Security to the Jockey Club； was short； spare； and a manding officer from his polished toecaps to the thinning blond hair on his crown。 He had all the organizational skills needed to rise high in the army； and he was intelligent and unhurried and listened attentively to what he was told。
I met him first on a day when old Clement Cornborough asked me again to lunch to discuss in detail； as he said； the winding up of the Trust he'd administered on my behalf for twenty years。 A small celebration； he said。 At his club。
His club turned out to be the Hobbs Sandwich Club； near the Oval cricket ground； a Victorian mini…mansion with a darkly opulent bar and club rooms； their oak…panelled walls decorated with endless pictures of gentlemen in small cricket caps； large white flannels and （quite often） side…whiskers。
The Hobbs Sandwich； he said； leading the way through stained…glass panelled doors； was named for two great Surrey cricketers from between the wars； Sir Jack Hobbs； one of the few cricketers ever knighted； and Andrew Sandham； who had scored one hundred and seven centuries in first…class cricket。 Long before I was born； he said。
I hadn't played cricket since distant days at school； nor liked it particularly even then： Clement Cornborough proved to be a lifelong fanatic。
He introduced me in the bar to an equal fanatic； his friend Val Catto； who then joined