Arrogant toffs, underlings with grudges and ruthless chancers are fine props in any aspiring writer’s day job. Where politics and the law fit the bill for such as Michael Dibden and John Mortimer, horses, gambling and suspense-filled plots have fuelled over 40 successful novels by ex-jockey Dick Francis.

His tales of mayhem and murder on the race-track continues with ‘Under Orders’ after a six-year hiatus following the death of his wife. His chief collaborator and researcher, she was rumoured write the books as well. Now the 86 year old best-seller’s son has stepped in to help satisfy the continuing demand and revive Francis’s former sleuth Sid Halley, a jockey whom injury has forced into early retirement.

When Sid is asked to look into the scam-potential of web-based betting at the same time as investigating the suspicious ‘suicide’ of a friend events move swiftly amid the usual race-track antagonisms. Sceptical owners and trainers are mixed with resentful jockeys to good effect and there are plenty of people who want to see Sid stopped.

Horses create the wealth that motivates the crimes. Francis shows genuine affection for the animals and their welfare but never really questions the ethics of steeple-chasing, a contradiction which doesn’t seem to bother his fans. The plotting has a painting-by-numbers feel, the prose is spare without elegance, and characters have roles, clothes and titles instead of personalities. It is the sense of being privy to the intense interdependencies of the racing world that fascinates.

There is something quaint rather than rugged about a hero who weighs in under nine stones and Sid Halley’s persisting preference for steamed fish and scrambled egg doesn’t help. Innate lack of charisma is compounded by descriptions of the management of his prosthetic arm, legacy of two previous encounters with crooks. It certainly makes his relationship with the glamorous Marina Van der Meer less than convincing. That she is a soft target for villains with a grudge against Sid would attract sympathy but the narrator uses the fact to emphasise his own macho invulnerability. About the only trait he shares with James Bond is a distinct whiff of masochism.

Random irritating political opinions, such as complaints about too many buses in London and the plight of single mothers pepper the book in a sometimes irritating manner and it is clear from his depiction of a vicious news reporter that Francis has no great regard for the press. Some readers may relish these asides as evidence of the octogenarian author’s engagement with modern issues but others might prefer him to him stick to writing about real horses, not the ‘hobby’ variety. Certainly, the masterly evocation of the horse-racing world, from dawn gallops in the training paddocks to Cheltenham on Gold Cup day does more than enough to justify enduring popularity with readers.

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