He nodded slightly, but I doubted that he would. His life may have been in tatters but he had kept his pride.

We shook hands inside the hallway and Josef peered cautiously round the door as he opened it to the street. I pressed some banknotes into his hand. He looked at the money and started as if to refuse it.

‘Buy some food for the baby,’ I said.

He looked up at my face. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, fighting back the tears. Things were so bad that he couldn’t refuse the cash, even though he clearly hated not doing so.

Next I went to see one of the three jurors from the original trial who had testified at the appeal and who lived in Hendon, close to Golders Green in north London.

George Barnett tried to slam the door in my face as soon as he saw who it was. He obviously recognized me from the trial, as I did him. He was the schoolmasterly white-haired gentleman who had been the jury foreman, but he seemed a shadow of his former self. Gone were the upright posture and the air of self-assurance. In their place there was an old-age stoop, and fear. Lots of fear.

‘Go away,’ he shouted through the crack in the door that my foot was preventing from closing. ‘I did what you asked. Now leave me alone.’

‘Mr Barnett,’ I called to him round the door. ‘I’ve come here to try and help you.’

‘That’s what he told me,’ he said.

‘I have not been sent by Mr Trent,’ I said back to him.

There was a muffled ‘Oh God’ from inside and he pushed harder on the door so that the wood bent. ‘Go away,’ he shouted again.

‘Mr Barnett,’ I called again, not moving my foot out of the door. ‘I was also beaten up by Julian Trent. I want to find out why. I need your help.’

‘Please go away,’ he said again, but this time he sounded tired.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I am going to move my foot now.’ I lifted it and he slammed the door shut.

‘Mr Barnett,’ I called through the door. ‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life in fear, or do you want to help me stop these people?’

‘Go away,’ he said again, pleading.

I pushed one of my business cards through his letter box. ‘Call me if you change your mind,’ I said. ‘I promise I’m on your side.’

He hadn’t actually told me anything useful but he had at least confirmed what I had suspected. Julian Trent, together with his friends and relations, had left a trail of broken lives wherever they went, attacking and then intimidating good people into doing what they wouldn’t normally contemplate, perverting the course of justice for their own ends and to hell with the consequences for everyone else, including me.

But I had no intention of living in fear for the rest of my life.

It was time to take a stand.

On Thursday, I left my troubles behind and went to Cheltenham for the races.

The Foxhunter Chase, my ambition, was the following afternoon, directly after the Gold Cup. Thursday was World Hurdle day, the long-distance hurdle race for the best ‘stayers’ in the country.

Today I was having a day off as a guest of a Lambourn horse-transport company that had hired a private box. I had acted for them the previous year when I had successfully defended a charge of careless driving against one of their drivers, and they were honouring their promise to give me a day at Cheltenham as a bonus.

The private box was on the top level of the huge grandstand that would later hold tens of thousands of cheering race fans, shouting home the winners at the greatest jump-race festival in the world. This was the meeting that all owners, trainers and jockeys worked towards for the preceding twelve months. The Grand National may be the most famous English steeplechase, known around the world, but the Cheltenham Festival is where most would love to win, especially one of the two major blue-riband events, the Gold Cup and the Champion Hurdle.

The festival excitement can be almost cut with a knife as the crowds stream through the turnstiles, eager to find themselves a pie and a pint before the serious business of choosing their fancies and placing their bets in good time to bag a vantage point on the grandstand steps.

Fortunately, for me, my vantage point was assured on the viewing balcony of the private box, so I had time to absorb the atmosphere, to walk amongst the tented village of shops and galleries, and to stroll through the Racing Hall of Fame on my way to level 5.

‘Ah, Geoffrey.’ Edward Cartwright, the transport-company owner extended a large plump hand as he came to meet me at the door. I shook it warmly. ‘Welcome to Cheltenham,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope for a great day.’ His gaze slid past me as another guest appeared behind me, his attention moving in turn to the new arrival.

The box was about four metres square and the centre was taken up with a large rectangular cloth-covered table set for lunch. I quickly scanned the places. There would be twelve of us in all, about half of whom had so far arrived. I gratefully accepted a glass of champagne that was offered by a small dark-haired waitress and then went out to join some of the other guests that I could see on the balcony outside.

‘Hello,’ said one of them. ‘Remember me?’

‘Of course,’ I said, shaking his hand. I had last seen him at the equine hospital in November. ‘How’s the yearling?’

‘Two-year-old now,’ Simon Dacey said. ‘Almost ready for the racecourse. No apparent ill effects, but you never know. He may have been faster still without the muscle damage.’

I looked at the other three people on the balcony.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Simon. ‘Can I introduce you to my wife, Francesca?’ I shook the offered petite hand. Francesca Dacey was blonde, tall, slim and wearing a yellow suit that touched her in all the right places. We smiled at each other. Simon waved towards the other two, a middle-aged couple, he in a pinstripe suit and she in an elegant long brown open jacket over a cream top and brown slacks. ‘And Roger and Deborah Radcliffe.’ Ah, I realized, they were the Peninsula connections.

‘Congratulations last June,’ I said. ‘With the Derby.’

‘Thank you,’ said Deborah Radcliffe. ‘Greatest day of our lives.’

I could imagine. I was hoping that the following day would prove to be mine. To win at Cheltenham was a dream, to have done so at Epsom in the Derby must be anyone’s lifetime ambition. But I could remember Simon Dacey saying when we met in the equine hospital that his party had been the best day of his life – until, that was, Millie Barlow had decided to kill herself in the middle of it.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Simon Dacey. ‘I remember you have horses with Paul Newington, but I’m afraid I have forgotten your name.’

‘Geoffrey Mason,’ I said.

‘Ah yes, Geoffrey Mason.’ The introductions were completed and hands shaken. ‘Lawyer, I think you said?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I replied. ‘But I’m here as an amateur jockey.’ I smiled. ‘I have a ride in the Foxhunters tomorrow.’

‘Best of luck,’ said Deborah Radcliffe, rather dismissively. ‘We don’t have any jumpers.’ She said it in a way that gave the impression that she believed jumpers weren’t real racehorses and were more of a hobby than proper racing, not like the flat. More fool her, I thought. I had always believed the reverse.

Roger Radcliffe, who obviously agreed with her, took the opportunity to move back inside the box to replenish his champagne. Why, I wondered, did they bother to come if they weren’t excited by the racing? But it was not my problem. I was in seventh heaven and my only concern was having too much to eat and drink today and having to put up overweight in the race tomorrow.

Francesca Dacey and Deborah Radcliffe moved to the far end of the balcony for, I imagined, some girly talk. It left Simon and me standing alone. There was an awkward silence for a few moments as we both drank from our champagne glasses.

‘Didn’t you say you were acting for Steve Mitchell?’ Simon Dacey finally asked, almost with relief.