[In the following review, Kimberley criticizes Francis's Bolt and asserts that thriller writers are not allowed to "retire gracefully" like old race horses when they "no longer cut the mustard."]

When old race horses no longer cut the mustard, they're allowed to retire gracefully. Not so thriller writers—which brings me to Dick Francis. Bolt is his 25th racetracker thriller and, like many of its predecessors, it's taken up with wealth, opulence and lineage. Kit Fielding, a well-bred jockey not at all like those you see interviewed on TV, rides horses for a princess whose family's vast but honourable business is threatened by an uncouth partner. Fielding sees off this loudmouth, and any other villains, while still managing to ride a few winners, take a few falls.

As you might expect from a man whose autobiography is called The Sport of Queens, there's little time spent with the lowly punter who, in the real world, makes the jockey's efforts meaningful. In fact, horses and courses are incidental colouring, endearing to those who like racing, off-putting to the rest of us. What matters is protecting the lovely princess and her money. Fielding shows a commendable desire to prevent the weapons industry from sullying that wealth—not, though, because guns in themselves are to be shunned, but simply to ensure that no terrorists are armed out of the family's trading. Terrorists, alter all, are unprincipled lunatics whose actions are merely self-serving. Ironic, then, that throughout the novel Fielding insists that the police should not be called in—as he says, he has taken justice into his own hands. Isn't that one definition of terrorism?