“She may not have you back,” I said.

“Back? Are you crazy? I just thought I’d better let things calm down before I asked Millie out.” He grinned at me, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant it or if he was just trying to shock his new business partner. Knowing Luca, it was probably both.

It was a lovely summer’s evening at the races with a large crowd, many of them eager to have a flutter on the horses, and most of them in summer-casual dress of shorts and T-shirts. It was a far cry from the morning-dress formality of Royal Ascot, and much more fun. The bars were soon doing brisk business, helped by the unusually warm weather, and before long there was a party atmosphere all around the betting ring.

Luca and I worked continuously, taking bets and paying out winners without a break, one of the disadvantages of not having a junior assistant. But busy as it was, it was still one of those times when being a bookmaker was a real joy.

No one really becomes a bookie unless they have a bit of the showman in them. I just loved standing on my platform shouting out the odds and bantering with the crowd.

“Come on, mate,” shouted one heavyweight punter at me, “call that fair to have Ellie’s Mobile at only three-to-one?” He looked up at the name at the top of our board. “How can we ‘Trust Teddy Talbot’ when you only offer it at that price?”

“If you’ll ride it, you can have it at tens,” I shouted back at him.

All his mates roared with laughter.

“He couldn’t ride a bike,” one of them shouted.

“Not without bending it,” shouted another.

“Give me twenty on the nose,” said the heavyweight, thrusting a note in my direction.

“Twenty pounds to win, number two, and make it at four-to-one,” I said to Luca over my shoulder. “Special favor.”

“Cheers,” said the man, surprised. “You’re a real gent.”

I didn’t know about that, but, if I couldn’t repay a bit of initiative and color, then I was in the wrong business.

Ellie’s Mobile, the favorite, romped home to win by four lengths at a starting price of three-to-one, cheered with great gusto by the ten-strong band of well-oiled mates, who had stayed near our pitch to watch the race.

“Well done,” I said to the big chap, who was beaming from ear to ear.

“My God!” he said loudly to whoever would listen.“I’ve actually got one over on a bookie.”

“That makes a change,” chipped in one of the others.

They all guffawed, and ordered more beer.

“Weighed in,” sounded the public-address system.

I paid the big man his eighty pounds in winnings plus his twenty-pound stake.

“Cheers,” he said again, stuffing the cash into a pocket. “I’ll trust Teddy Talbot any day of the week.”

Giving him a better price had cost me twenty pounds. But the man and his nine friends more than repaid that amount in losing stakes in the remaining races. And they did so with smiles on their faces.

In fact, the whole evening was fun, with plenty of punters and a good mix of favorites and outsiders winning the races. Our overround, the measure of our overall profit, hovered around nine percent throughout, and both Luca and I were tired but happy as we packed up the equipment onto our little trolley after the last race.

“Where are you parked?” I asked him.

“In the center,” he said. “And you?”

“Up there.” I pointed. “Where are we the rest of the week?”

“Worcester tomorrow afternoon, Thursday evening and Friday afternoon at Warwick, then Leicester on Saturday,” Luca said. He always remembered what we had arranged better than I. We sat down about once every six weeks or so to plan the time ahead, and it was getting near to when we would have to do it again.

“Better put everything in my car, then,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I’ll give you a hand.”

We dragged the trolley up the hill to the parking lot near the main entrance where I had left my car. All around us were happy racegoers also making their way to their vehicles in the late-evening sunshine. One of the reasons why evening racing was so popular was that, even in southern England, the sun didn’t set until well after nine o’clock for two whole months during midsummer.

“How about your young delinquent friend?” I asked as we pulled on the trolley handle. “Can he come with you sometime this week so I can meet him?”

“I’ll find out,” Luca said. “And he’s not a delinquent. He’s a nice boy, or I wouldn’t even suggest it.”

“OK, OK,” I said, smiling. “Ask him if he’d like to come and watch us one day this week. What’s his name?”

“Douglas,” he said. “Douglas Masters.”

His name didn’t sound like that of a juvenile delinquent, but who was I to know? Kipper didn’t exactly sound like a killer’s name either, but it was.

“Calls himself Duggie. Can I tell him there’s a job?”

“Sure,” I said. “But tell him it’s like an interview. No promises.”

Two large men were leaning on the oak tree waiting for us beside my car. I knew them from a previous encounter. As before, they were dressed in short-sleeved white shirts and black trousers.

I stopped the trolley about ten yards from them.

“What the hell do you want?” I shouted across.

Luca looked at me in stunned amazement.

“Eh?” he said. He obviously hadn’t seen them, or, if he had, he hadn’t realized they were waiting for us.

“Luca,” I said. “These are the two gentlemen who delivered a message to me in the Kempton parking lot.”

“Oh,” he said. Oh, indeed.

I looked down at the men’s feet. Large, steel-toe-capped work boots, same as before.

“We have another message,” one of them said. He was the taller of the two, the same one who had spoken to me at Kempton. Not that the other one was short. They both were well over six feet. The sidekick made up for his slight lack of height by being a good few inches broader than his more wordy companion. And he just stood silently to one side, bunching his fists.

Surely I was not to be beaten up again, I thought. Not here at this wonderful parkland racetrack, not with all these people about.

“What message?” I said. There was still ten yards between us, and I reckoned that if they made a move towards me I would turn and run. A ten-yard start should be enough for me to reach the relative safety of a busy after-racing bar in the grandstand.

“Luca,” I said quietly, “if they move, run for it. Run like the wind.”

The look on his face was priceless. I’m not sure he realized until that point that he was in any danger.

“My boss says he wants to talk to you,” the man said.

“You can tell your boss to bugger off,” I said.

“He wants to do some business,” the man went on.

“Still tell him to bugger off,” I said. “I don’t do business the same way he does.”

“He wants to buy you out,” he said, ignoring me.

I stood there looking at the man in complete surprise.

“What?” I said, not quite believing what I’d heard.

“He wants to buy your business,” the man said.

“He couldn’t afford it,” I said.

“I don’t think you understand,” said the man. “My boss wants your business, and he’s prepared to pay for it.”

“No,” I almost shouted. “I don’t think you understand. My business is not for sale, and even if it was I wouldn’t sell it to your boss, whoever he might be, for all the tea in China. So go and tell your boss to get stuffed.”

The man flexed his muscles and began to get red in the face.

“My boss says that you can either sell it to him the easy way or lose it to him the hard way.”

“And who exactly is your boss?” I shouted at him.

He didn’t reply but advanced a stride towards me. My head start had just been reduced to nine yards.

“Stay there,” I shouted at him. He stopped. “Who is your boss?” I asked again. Again, he ignored me. And he advanced another stride. Eight yards.