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said he wanted them off for safety reasons.’
    Jane Winter was taking notes. Simon Whitfield finished his coffee and threw the dregs on the ground. Dixon continued.
    ‘Where are the plates now?’
    ‘They were new so I put ‘em on another horse. Waste not, want not and all that.’
    ‘Which horse?’
    ‘No idea. Could’ve been any one of a number, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Is there any way you can find out?’
    ‘Not really. I’d have re-shaped them and they’d have gone in the forge first too, don’t forget.’
    ‘Is there anything unusual about Warrior’s hooves?’
    ‘They’re cut a bit squarer than normal, I suppose, but he’s got a good solid hoof, to be honest.’
    ‘Size?’
    ‘Average for a thoroughbred.’
    ‘Show me one of these racing plates then?’
    ‘Sure.’
    They walked around to the back of Whitfield’s van. He opened the doors to reveal his portable gas forge, which looked like a large black microwave oven, and various wooden boxes containing shoes and nails. He reached into a box and produced a new horse shoe. He handed it to Dixon.
    ‘This is a normal horse shoe. I buy them in boxes of ten pairs. Cheap as chips. I heat them in the forge and then shape them to the horse’s hoof, once I’ve trimmed it, of course.’
    Dixon looked at the shoe. It was the perfect horse shoe shape, dark grey and heavier than he had expected. There were five nail holes either side. On the underside was a deep groove.
    ‘How much are they?’
    ‘Ten pairs, twenty quid.’
    ‘And they come in different sizes?’
    ‘Yes, that’s a five inch.’
    ‘Is this one front or back or are they the same?’
    ‘No, that’s a front shoe. The hinds, we call them, are a slightly different shape.’ He reached into the box and then handed Dixon another shoe.
    ‘That’s a hind. See the shape? It’s got slightly straighter sides.’
    ‘Can we keep these?’ said Dixon, handing the shoes to Jane.
    ‘Yeah, sure.’
    ‘But this isn’t what Westbrook Warrior had on?’
    ‘Fuck no,’ replied Whitfield.
    He went around to the side door of the van, opened it, and took out a plastic box.
    ‘This is a Victory EC Queens aluminium racing plate with toe clip.’ He handed two shoes to Dixon. ‘This one’s the front and this one the hind, with two clips. This ridge is called a toe grab. It’s for extra grip.’
    ‘And these are what he’d have been wearing when he kicked Noel?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Same size?’
    ‘Yep.’
    The differences were obvious. It was thinner, narrower and lighter. It also had seven nail holes on each side instead of five and a distinct ridge underneath.
    ‘Can we keep these?’
    ‘They’re a bit more expensive...’
    ‘You’ll get them back.’
    ‘Yeah, that’s fine then.’
    ‘What about the nails?’ asked Jane.
    ‘They’re different too,’ replied Whitfield. ‘Here, have a couple of each.’
    ‘And Westbrook Warrior himself, he’s aggressive, I’m told?’ asked Dixon.
    ‘He is. Call it an occupational hazard.’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Whitfield. You’ve been most helpful.’
     
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘I forgot my Tramadol,’ said Dixon, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat of the Land Rover.
    ‘Where are they?’
    ‘In the kitchen.’
    ‘You burk.’
    ‘Sympathy and understanding. Just what I need.’
    ‘We’ll find a chemist in Wellington. It’s on the way.’
    Jane drove along Fore Street, and parked on the double yellow lines outside Superdrug. Dixon was deep in thought and yet alert enough to notice the traffic warden making a beeline for his car. He waved her over, produced his warrant card and then watched in the wing mirror as she went in search of another victim.
    ‘Was that a traffic warden?’ asked Jane.
    ‘Yes, but she’s gone. You’re alright.’
    ‘Me?’
    ‘You’re driving.’
    Jane’s reply was lost in the noise of the old diesel engine starting up. She reached over and dropped a plastic bag into Dixon’s lap. It contained a bacon