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towel and went into the showers.
    Scot Barlow was half sitting, half lying on the tiled floor, leaning up against the wall with a stream of water falling from the shower head onto his legs. He had a small trickle of blood coming from his right nostril and his eyes were puffy and closed.
    ‘Are you all right?’ I asked going over to him and touching his shoulder.
    His eyes opened a little and he looked up at me but with no warmth in his expression.
    ‘Sod off,’ he said.
    Charming, I thought. ‘Just trying to help,’ I said.
    ‘Bloody amateurs,’ he replied. ‘Take away our livelihoods, you do.’
    I ignored him and washed my hair.
    ‘Do you hear me?’ he shouted in full Scottish lilt. ‘I said people like you take away my livelihood. I should be paid to let the likes of you ride races.’
    I thought of trying to tell him that I had ridden in a race reserved only for amateurs and he wouldn’t have been allowed to ride in it anyway. But it would probably have been a waste of time and he clearly wasn’t in the mood for serious debate. I went on ignoring him and finished my shower, the warmth helping to return some strength to my aching muscles. Barlow continued to sit where he was. The bleeding from his nose had gradually stopped and the blood was washed away by the water.
    I went back into the main changing room, dressed and packed up my stuff. The professional jockeys all used the valets to look after their equipment. Each night their riding clothes were washed and dried, their riding boots polished and their saddles soaped ready for the next day’s racing. For me, who rode only about once a fortnight and often more infrequently than that, the services of a valet were unnecessary and counter-productive.I stuffed my dirty things in a bag ready to take home to the washer-drier in the corner of my kitchen.
    I was soon ready to go and there was still no sign of Scot Barlow. Everyone else had gone home so I went and again looked into the showers. He was still sitting there, in the same place as before.
    ‘Do you need any help?’ I asked. I assumed he must have had a fall during the afternoon and that his face was sore from using it on the ground as a brake.
    ‘Sod off,’ he said again. ‘I don’t need your help. You’re as bad as he is.’
    ‘Bad as who is?’ I asked.
    ‘Your bloody friend,’ he said.
    ‘What friend?’ I asked him.
    ‘Steve bloody Mitchell, of course,’ he said. ‘Who else do you think did this?’ He held a hand up to his face.
    ‘What?’ I said, astounded. ‘Steve Mitchell did this to you? But why?’
    ‘You’d better ask him that,’ he said. ‘And not the first time, either.’
    ‘You should tell someone,’ I said, but I could see that he couldn’t. Not with his reputation.
    ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘Now you piss off home like a good little amateur. And keep your bloody mouth shut.’ He turned away from me and wiped a hand over his face.
    I wondered what I should do. Should I tell the few officials left in the weighing room that he was there so they didn’t lock him in? Should I go and fetch one of the ambulance staff? Or should I go and find a policeman to report an assault?
    In the end I did nothing, except collect my gear and go home.

C HAPTER 2
    ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ someone said loudly in the clerks’ room as I walked in on Monday morning.
    Such language in chambers was rare, and rarer still was such language from Sir James Horley QC, the Head of Chambers, and therefore nominally my boss. Sir James was standing in front of the clerks’ desks reading from a piece of paper.
    ‘What don’t you… believe?’ I asked him, deciding at the last moment not to repeat his profanity.
    ‘This,’ he said, waving the paper towards me.
    I walked over and took the paper. It was a printout of an e-mail. It was headed CASE COLLAPSES AGAINST JULIAN TRENT .
    Oh fuck indeed, I thought. I didn’t believe it either.
    ‘You defended him the first time