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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 us for lunch。 Not a word about my Trust was spoken。 The two of them talked cricket solidly for fifteen minutes and then the friend Catto began asking questions about my life。 It dawned on me uneasily after a while that I was being interviewed； though I didn't know for what； and I learned afterwards that in conversation one day during the tea interval of a cricket match Catto had lamented to Cornborough that what he really needed was someone who knew the racing scene intimately； but whom the racing scene didn't know in return。 An eyes and ears man。 A silent； unknown investigator。 A fly on racing's wall that no one would notice。 Such a person； they had sighed together； was unlikely to be found。 And that when a few weeks later I walked into Cornborough's office （or at least by the time I left it） the lawyer had suffered a brainwave which he passed on to his friend Val。
The Hobbs Sandwich lunch （of anything but sandwiches） had lasted through a good chunk of the afternoon； and by the end of it I had a job。 I hadn't taken a lot of persuading； as it seemed interesting to me from the start。 A month's trial on both sides。 Brigadier Catto said； and mentioned a salary that had Cornborough smiling broadly。
'What's so funny？' the Brigadier asked。 'That's normal。 We pay most of our men that at the start。'
'I forgot to mention it。 Tor here is。。 um。。。' He paused； perhaps wondering whether finishing the sentence came under the heading of breaking a client's right to confidentiality； because after a short while he went on； 'He'd better tell you himself。'
'I accept the salary；' I said。
'What have you not told me？' Catto asked； suddenly very much the boss； his eyes not exactly suspicious but unsmiling： and I saw that I was not binding myself to some slightly eccentric friendly cricket nut； but to the purposeful； powerful man who had manded a brigade and was currently keeping horseracing honest。 I was not going to be playing a game； he was meaning； and if I thought so we would go no further。
I said wryly； 'I have a private ine after tax of about twenty times the salary you're offering； but I'll take your money all the same； sir； and I'll work for it。'
He listened to the underlying declaration of mitment and good faith； and after a long pause he smiled briefly and nodded。
'Very well；' he said。 'When can you start？'
I had started the next day at Epsom races； relearning the characters； reawakening sleeping memories； hearing Aunt Viv's bright voice in my ear about as clearly as if she were alive。 'There's Paddy Fredericks。 Did I tell you he used to be married to Betsy who's now Mrs Glovebinder？ Brad Glovebinder used to have horses with Paddy Fredericks but when he pinched Betsy； he took his horses away too。。。 no justice in the world。 Hello Paddy； how are things？ This is my nephew Torquil； as I expect you remember； you've met him often enough。 Well done with your winner； Paddy 。。。' and Paddy had taken us off for a drink； buying me a Coke。
I came face to face unexpectedly with the trainer Paddy Fredericks that first day at Epsom and he hadn't known me。
There hadn't been a pause or a flicker。 Aunt Viv had been dead nearly eight years and I had changed too much； and I had been reassured from that early moment that my weird new non…identity was going to work。
On the grounds that racing villains made it their business to know the Security Service prehensively by sight； Brigadier Catto said that if ever he wanted to speak to me himself； it would never be on a racecourse but always in the bar of the Hobbs Sandwich； and so it had been for the past three years。 He and Clement Cornborough had sponsored me for full membership of the club and encouraged me to go there occasionally on other days on my own； and although I'd thought the Brigadier's passion for secrecy a shade obsessive I had fallen in with his wishes and e to enjoy it； even if I'd learned a lot more about cricket than I really wanted to。
On the night of Derry Welfram's death； I walked into the bar at ten to eight and ordered a glass of Burgundy and a couple of beef sandwiches which came promptly because of the post…cricket…season absence of a hundred devotees discussing leg…breaks and insider politics at the tops of their voices。 There were still a good number of customers； but from late September to the middle of April one could talk all night without laryngitis the next day； and when the Brigadier arrived he greeted me audibly and cheerfully as a fellow member well met and began telling me his assessment of the Test team just assembled for the winter tour abroad。
'They've disregarded Withers；' he plained。 'How are they ever going to get Balping out if they leave our best in…swinger biting his knuckles at home？'
I hadn't the faintest idea； and he knew it。 With a gleam of a smile he bought himself a double Scotch drowned in a large glass of water； and led the way to one of the small tables round the edge of the room； still chatting on about the whys and wherefores of the selected team。
'Now；' he said without change of speed or volume； 'Welfram's dead； Shacklebury's dead； Gideon's dead； and the problem is what do we do next？'
The question； I knew； had to be rhetorical。 He never called me to the Hobbs Sandwich to ask my advice but always to direct me towards some new course of action； though he would listen and change his requirements if I put forward any huge objections； which I didn't often。 He waited for a while； though； as if for an answer； and took a slow contemplative mouthful of weak whisky。
'Did Mr Gideon leave any notes？' I asked eventually。
'Not as far as we know。 Nothing as helpful as telling us why he sold his horses to Filmer； if that's what you mean。 Not unless a letter es in the post next week； which I very much doubt。'
Gideon had been frightened beyond death； I thought。 The threat must have been to the living； an ongoing perpetual threat。
'Mr Gideon has daughters；' I said。
The Brigadier nodded。 'Three。 And five grandchildren。 His wife died years ago； I suppose you know。 Am I reading you *aright？'
'That the daughters and grandchildren were hostages？ Yes。 Do you think they could know it？'
'Positive they don't；' the Brigadier said。 'I talked with his eldest daughter today。 Nice； sensible woman； about fifty。 Gideon shot himself yesterday evening； around five they think； but no one found him for hours as he did it out in the woods。 I went down to the house today。 His daughter； Sarah； said he's been ultra…depressed lately； going deeper and deeper； but she didn't know what had caused it。 He wouldn't discuss it。 Sarah was in tears； of course； and also of course feeling guilty because she didn't prevent it； but she couldn't have prevented it； it's almost impossible to stop a determined suicide； you can't force people to go on living。 Short of imprisonment； of course。 Anyway； if she was any sort of a hostage； she didn't know it。 It wasn't that sort of guilt。'
I offered him one of my so far uneaten sandwiches。 He took one absentmindedly and began to chew； and I ate one myself。 The problem of what to do about Filmer lay in morose wrinkles across his brow and I'd heard he considered the collapse of the conspiracy trial a personal failure。
'I went to see Ezra Gideon myself after you and John Millington flushed out Welfram；' he said。 'I showed Ezra your photograph of Welfram。 I thought he would faint； he went so white； but he still wouldn't speak。 And now； God damn it； in one day we've lost both contacts。 We don't know who Filmer will get to next； or if he's already active again； and we'll have the devil's own job spotting another frightener。'
'He won't have found one himself yet； I shouldn't think；' I said。 'Certainly not one as effective。 They aren't that mon； are they？'
'The police say they're getting younger。'
He looked unusually discouraged for someone whose success rate in all other fields was impressive。 The lost battle rankled： the victories had been shrugged off。 I drank some wine and waited for the manding officer to emerge from the worried man； waited for him to unfold