Silks

CHAPTER 5

On Thursday night I stayed with my trainer, Paul Newington, at Great Milton.

I had left Steve Mitchell feeling very sorry for himself at Bullingdon Prison.

‘When can you get me out of here?’ he’d asked me as we had shaken hands.

‘I really don’t know, Steve,’ I’d said. ‘It is most unlikely that you would get bail on a murder charge.’

‘But I didn’t do it,’ he had repeated yet again.

‘The police don’t see it like that,’ I’d said. ‘And I’m afraid the court will take more notice of them than of you.’

‘But you will try?’ he had implored.

I had privately thought it would be a complete waste of my time.

‘I’ll get Bruce Lygon to make another application,’ I’d told him.

‘I want you to do it,’ he had demanded.

But I knew it wasn’t always a good idea for a barrister to appear at a bail hearing. It was seen as overkill. In some eyes, it tended to make the accused look guilty. Sometimes that very fact could swing the decision against the award. And anyway, bail in murder cases was as rare as hen’s teeth.

‘I don’t really think it would make any difference,’ I’d told him.

‘So when can I expect to get out?’ he had asked in near desperation.

‘Steve,’ I’d said. ‘I think you had better prepare yourself for quite a lengthy stretch in here. The trial date will likely not be set for at least six months and it could be as long as a year away.’

‘A year!’ he’d exclaimed, going white. ‘Oh my God. I’ll go mad.’

‘I’ll see what I can do to get you out sooner, but I don’t want to build your hopes up too much.’

I had looked at him standing there with drooping shoulders, appearing much shorter than his five foot six. He may have been an arrogant ego maniac who annoyed most of those he encountered, but there was no doubt that he was one of the best in hischosen tough and physically demanding profession. He was basically a harmless victim and I was sure he was no murderer. And he didn’t deserve to have been thrust into this nightmare.

I had thought he was going to cry. Perhaps for the first time he had appreciated the real fix he was in and he was far from pleased about it.

I hadn’t liked leaving Steve in that state. Over the years I’d left clients in prison on remand in states of emotion that varied from utter rage to complete collapse. It was never easy, but this was the first time I’d felt real anger in tandem with my client. Hold on a minute, I thought suddenly, he’s not my client and, what’s more, he couldn’t be.

∗

It was always an escape from my usual work to go to Paul Newington’s place. He was so different from the people I dealt with on a day-to-day basis. For a start, I don’t think I had ever seen him in a tie, and almost never in a jacket. When he was at home he habitually wore blue denim jeans with scuffed knees and frayed legs, and, on this occasion, he sported a black sweatshirt with ‘Motorhead’ emblazoned across its chest in lightning-strike letters. Perhaps it would not have been my choice of garb when entertaining one of his owners.

But I think that was why I liked him so much. He used to say that the horses didn’t care if he was in his dressing gown so why should their owners. I tactfully didn’t point out to him that it wasn’t the horses that were paying him for their board and lodging. It was one of the reasons why he had never quite broken into the big time. Rich owners want to be appreciated and, in their eyes, afforded due reverence by their trainers. And rich owners buy the best horses.

Paul’s richest owners had continually been wooed away by other trainers more willing to bow and scrape to their whims. I had resisted two such approaches myself because I liked the relaxed atmosphere of his stable. It was in such contrast to the old-fashioned formality I was all too familiar with in the courts.

Paul and I walked round the stables as his staff were busy mucking out and giving their charges food and water for the night. Sandeman looked wonderful in his box with his shining golden tan coat and showing no apparent ill effects from his race at Sandown the previous Saturday.

I walked over and slapped his neck.

‘Good boy,’ I said to him calmly. ‘Who’s a good boy?’

He blew through his nostrils and shifted his bulk, turning his head to see if I had a titbit for him. I never came to Paul’s without some apples in my pocket and today was no exception. Sandeman gratefully munched his way noisily through a Granny Smith, dripping saliva and apple bits into his bedding. It was a satisfactory encounter for us both and I took my leave of him with a slap on his neck which caused him to lift and lower his head as if he were agreeing with me.

‘See you in the morning, my boy,’ I called to him as I left his box. I often wondered if our equine partners had any notion of the depth of our devotion for them.

Laura, Paul’s wife, cooked us supper and, as always, we sat round the bleached-pine kitchen table, eating her best macaroni cheese with onions. It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the hot topic in racing circles.

‘So, do you think he did it?’ said Paul between mouthfuls.

‘Who? Steve Mitchell?’ I said.

‘Umm,’ he said while ladling another spoonful of the pasta into his mouth.

‘The evidence seems to suggest it,’ I said.

‘What is the world coming to?’ Paul said. ‘When I used to ride there was always greater camaraderie than there is nowadays.’

I thought that Paul was wearing rose-tinted spectacles in his memory of how things used to be. Rivalry amongst jockeys had always been alive and well, and certainly had been in the nineteenth century, in the time of the great Fred Archer, when causing your rival to miss his steam train to the next meeting was as legitimate a tactic as out-riding him in a close finish.

‘Well, do you think he did it?’ I asked Paul.

‘I don’t know, you’re the lawyer,’ he replied.

‘He would have to have been incredibly stupid to have left all those clues,’ I said. ‘The murder weapon left sticking in the victim belonged to him. And he supposedly texted a message to Barlow that afternoon saying he was coming round to sort him out.’

‘I thought Steve Mitchell had more sense,’ said Paul, shaking his head. He had clearly convicted the accused before any defence witnesses had been called.

‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘There are many questions that need answering in this case.’

‘But who else would have done it?’ asked Paul. ‘Everyone knew that Mitchell hated Barlow’s guts. You could cut the atmosphere between them with a knife.’

‘Reno Clemens has done well with both of them being out of the way,’ I said.

‘Oh come on,’ Paul said. ‘Reno might be a damn good jockey but he’s hardly a murderer. He hasn’t got the brains.’

‘He may have others around him who have,’ I said.

Paul waved a dismissive hand and refilled our wine glasses.

‘Do you know anyone called Julian Trent?’ I asked into the pause.

‘No,’ said Paul. Laura shook her head. ‘Is he a jockey?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not important, I just wondered.’

‘Who is he?’ Paul asked.

‘Just an ex-client of mine,’ I said. ‘His name has popped up in connection with Barlow a couple of times and I just wondered if you knew him. It doesn’t matter.’

There were a few moments of silence as we concentrated on our food.

‘Do you know why Barlow and Mitchell hated each other so much?’ I asked.

‘Wasn’t it something to do with Barlow’s sister?’ Paul said. ‘Mitchell had an affair with her or something.’

‘Such a shame,’ Laura interjected unexpectedly.

‘What’s a shame?’ I asked her.

‘About Scot Barlow’s sister,’ she said.

‘What about his sister?’ I said.

‘Don’t you know?’ she said. She went on when my blank expression gave her the answer. ‘She killed herself in June.’

‘How?’ I asked, wondering why Steve Mitchell hadn’t bothered to mention this to me.

‘At a party,’ Laura said. ‘Apparently she was depressed and injected herself with a huge dose of anaesthetic.’

‘How did she get anaesthetic?’ I asked.

‘She was a vet,’ said Paul. ‘Specialized in horses.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Lambourn,’ Paul replied. ‘She worked in the equine hospital there and most of the local trainers used her practice. She was one of a team, of course.’

‘You must remember,’ said Laura. ‘There was a huge fuss on the television and the papers were full of it.’

‘I was away for the first half of June,’ I said. ‘I must have missed it.’ I had been away advising a client up on a money-laundering charge in Gibraltar. The long arm of the English law still stretched far to our remaining colonies and dependencies. ‘Whose party was it?’ I asked.

‘Simon Dacey’s,’ said Paul.

I again looked rather blank.

‘He’s a trainer,’ said Paul. ‘Trains on the flat only. Moved to Lambourn about five years ago from Middleham in Wensleydale.’ That may account for why I didn’t know of him. ‘He threw the party after winning the Derby. You know, with Peninsula.’

Now, even I had heard of Peninsula. Hottest horseflesh property in the world. Horse of the Year as a two-year-old and, this season, winner of the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket in May, the Derby at Epsom in June, the Breeders Cup the previous month at Santa Anita Park in California, and now on his way to some lucrative earnings at stud.

‘That must have gone down well with the guests,’ I said rather flippantly.

‘It certainly didn’t,’ said Laura seriously. ‘We were there. We’ve known Simon since our Yorkshire days. Paul worked for him as an assistant when we first started. The party was huge. Massive marquee in the garden with live bands and everything. It was great fun. At least it was until someone found Millie Barlow.’

‘Where was she found?’ I asked.

‘In the house,’ said Paul. ‘Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms.’

‘Who found her?’ I said.

‘No idea,’ said Paul. ‘The police arrived and stopped the party about nine at night. It had been going since noon. Started off as Sunday lunch and just went on.’

‘What did the police do?’ I asked him.

‘Took our names and addresses and sent us home,’ he said. ‘Most of us hadn’t even been in the house. They asked for witnesses to tell them when they had last seen Millie Barlow, but we didn’t even know what she looked like so we left as soon as we could.’

‘And were they sure it was suicide?’

‘That’s what everyone thought,’ he said.

‘What was she depressed about?’

‘You seem very interested all of a sudden,’ said Paul.

‘Just my suspicious mind,’ I said with a laugh. ‘One violent death in a family is unfortunate; two within five months may be more than coincidental.’

‘Wow,’ said Laura, perking up her interest. ‘Are you saying that Millie was murdered?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘I just wondered if the inquest had found that she had killed herself, and why.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know if the inquest has been held.’

I hadn’t heard about the case, or read about it, but I knew that the Coroner’s Court system, like every other aspect of the law, was slow and tedious at times. It wasn’t unusual for an inquest to be opened and adjourned for many months, even years. I made a mental note to look it up on the internet.

‘So, how’s my horse,’ I said, changing the subject.

‘Slow and fat,’ said Paul, laughing, ‘like his owner.’

I toasted our slowness and fatness with good red wine, and added a few more ounces with a second helping of macaroni.

I adored riding out on cold, crisp winter’s mornings with my breath showing in the air and the frost white on the ground, glistening in the brightness of the sunlight. Sadly, this Friday was not one of those. Rain fell steadily, the plop, plop of the large drops clearly audible as they struck my helmet from high above.

Sandeman and I were number six in Paul’s string of ten horses as we walked through Great Milton on the way to the training gallops beyond the village, the horses’ metal shoes clicking on the hard roads. Both horses and riders were soaked even before we had left the stable yard with the dawn at seven thirty sharp, and now the water ran in rivulets down my neck inside my semi-waterproof jacket. But I didn’t care and neither did Sande-man. I could feel his rippling muscles beneath me. He knew exactly why he had been roused from his stable in the rain, and exactly where we were going. We were both clearly excited in anticipation of the gallop we would soon share.

The wind tore at my jacket and the raindrops stung my face, but nothing could wipe the grin from my mouth as we tore up the gallop at nearly thirty miles an hour with me trying hard to stop Sandeman going any faster. He clearly had recovered fully from the three miles last Saturday and he seemed as eager as I to get back on a racecourse.

Paul sat on horseback at the top of the gallop, watching as we moved smoothly up towards him. I was attempting to comply with the letter of his instructions. Asteady three-quarter-speed gallop, he had said, keeping up-sides with one of his other horses. He had implored me not to ride a finish, not to over-tire my horse. I was doing my best to do what he had asked, but Sandeman beneath me seemed determined to race, keen as always to put his nose in front of the other horse. I took another tight hold of the reins and steadied him. In spite of Paul’s sometimes casual manner with his owners, he was still a great trainer of racehorses and very rarely did his horses fail on the racecourse due to over- or under-training at home. I had never questioned his judgement in that department.

I pulled Sandeman up into a trot and then a walk, laughing as I did so. What a magnificent way to blow the courtroom cobwebs out of my hair. I walked him round and round in circles while he cooled and the other horses completed their work up the gallop. Then the string wound its way down the hill and back through the village to Paul’s stables.

Oxfordshire was coming to life and the road traffic had increased significantly during the time we had been on the gallops. Now, streams of impatient commuters roared past us on their way to join the lines of cars on the nearby M40 making the long drag into London. How lucky I am, I thought, to have this escape from the hurly burly of city life and, as I always did, I resolved to try to do this more often. Life here, deep in rural England, seemed a million miles from baseball bats and smashed computers. Perhaps, I mused, I should stay right here and let it all go away.

My dreams of leaving life’s troubles behind lasted only until we arrived back at Paul’s yard. Laura came out of the house as I was sliding off Sandeman’s back.

‘A Mr Lygon called for you about ten minutes ago,’ she said as I led Sandeman into his stable. She followed us in. ‘He seemed very insistent that you should call him as soon as you got back.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering how he knew where I was. I looked at my watch. It was ten to nine.

I removed the bridle and saddle from Sandeman and replaced them with his head-collar and a dry rug.

‘Sorry, old boy,’ I said to him. ‘I’ll be back to finish you in a while.’

I shut the stable door before the horse bolted and went inside, dripping water all over Laura’s clean kitchen floor.

‘Bruce,’ I said when he answered. ‘How did you know where I was?’

‘Your clerk told me that you weren’t due in court today, and you had told him you wouldn’t be in chambers, so he said you were probably riding your nag.’ I could almost hear Arthur saying it. ‘After that it was easy. I looked up who trained your nag on the Racing Post website.’

If Bruce Lygon could find me so easily, then so could young Julian Trent, or, indeed, whoever was behind Julian Trent, the smooth whispering man on the telephone. I must learn to be more careful.

‘Do you often frequent the Racing Post website?’ I asked Bruce sarcastically.

‘All the time,’ he said eagerly. ‘I love my racing.’

‘Well, don’t tell me if you ever won or lost money on Scot Barlow or Steve Mitchell,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to know.’ And neither should anyone else, I thought.

‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘Never thought of that.’

‘So how can I help you?’ I asked him.

‘It’s me helping you, actually,’ he replied. ‘I’ve managed to get us a visit to the crime scene.’

‘Well done,’ I said. ‘When?’

‘Today,’ he said. ‘The police say we can go there at two this afternoon. But they say it will be an accompanied visit only.’

Fair enough, I thought. I was surprised they would let us in at all this soon.

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

‘Great Shefford,’ he said. ‘Small village between Lambourn and Newbury. Place called Honeysuckle Cottage.’ It didn’t sound like a site of bloody murder. ‘Meet you there at two?’

‘Is there a pub?’ I asked him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think so. There’s one on the main road.’

‘Shall we meet there at one o’clock?’ I said. ‘For some lunch?’

‘Ah.’ He thought. ‘Yes I think that will be fine. But keep your phone on just in case’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘See you later.’

‘How will you know which one is me?’ he asked.

‘You’ll have a rolled up copy of the Racing Post under your arm.’ I laughed, and so did he.

The Racing Post wasn’t needed. There were only three other people in the bar when I walked into the Swan Inn at one o’clock sharp and two of them were clearly a couple, heads close together and holding hands as if they were having a secret lovers’ tryst far from home.

The third person was a man who looked to be in his mid to late forties and who was wearing a light grey suit with white shirt and blue striped tie. He looked at me briefly, then his gaze slid over my shoulder back to the door as if expecting somebody else.

‘Bruce?’ I asked him, walking up close.

‘Yes?’ he said as a question, returning his gaze briefly to my face before again looking over my shoulder.

‘I’m Geoffrey,’ I said. ‘Geoffrey Mason.’

‘Oh,’ he said. He seemed reluctant to take his eyes off the door. ‘I was expecting someone…, you know, a bit older.’

It was a reaction I was used to. I would be thirty-six in January but, it seemed, I appeared somewhat younger. This was not always an asset in court, where some judges often equated age with ability. On this occasion I imagined that Bruce was expecting me to be dressed similarly to him, in suit and tie, while, in fact, I was in jeans and a brown suede bomber jacket over an open-necked check shirt. Maybe it was because I was still trying to tell myself that I couldn’t actually represent Steve Mitchell that I had decided against my sober dark suit when I had changed out of my sopping wet riding clothes at Paul’s.

‘Older and wiser?’ I said, adding to Bruce’s discomfort.

He laughed. Anervous little laugh. He, too, was not quite what I had expected. Ironically, he was slightly older than I had thought from listening to him on the telephone, and he was less confident than I would have liked.

‘What are you drinking?’ I asked him.

‘I’m fine,’ he said pointing at a partially drained pint mug on the bar. ‘My round.’

‘Diet Coke then, please,’ I said.

We also ordered some food and took our drinks over to a table in the corner, where we could talk without the barman listening to every word.

‘Did you see Mitchell yesterday?’ asked Bruce.

‘Yes,’ I said without elaborating.

‘What did he say?’ asked Bruce eagerly.

‘Not much,’ I replied. ‘Says he’s being framed.’

‘I know that,’ said Bruce. ‘But do you believe him?’

I didn’t answer. ‘Did you know Scot Barlow had a sister?’ I asked him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Should I?’

‘Seems she killed herself last June,’ I said. He didn’t look any the wiser. ‘During a big party in Lambourn.’

‘What? Not that girl vet?’ he said.

‘One and the same,’ I said. ‘Millie Barlow.’

‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘That was big news in these parts.’

‘Why?’ I asked him.

‘Speculation, I suppose,’ he said. ‘And all those celebrities at that party being held by the police.’

‘What sort of speculation?’

‘Drugs,’ he said. ‘Lots of cocaine sniffing, apparently. Always the way with celebs. It was initially thought the vet had died of an overdose of it, but it turned out to be horse anaesthetic and it seems she did it on purpose.’

‘Do you know or are you guessing?’ I asked.

‘It’s what everyone says,’ he replied. ‘Seems she left a note or something.’

‘Seems a strange place to do it,’ I said.

‘Suicides do strange things,’ he said. ‘There was that one near here who drove his car onto the railway line and waited for it to get hit by a train. Stupid sod killed six more with him and injured hundreds of others. Why didn’t he just shut himself into his garage and quietly leave the engine running?’

‘Yeah, but ruining a party seems a bit…’ I tailed off.

‘Perhaps she had a grudge against the party giver, and she was extracting revenge. I once had a client whose ex-wife killed herself right outside the registry office as he was getting remarried inside.’

‘How?’ I asked.

‘Walked out under a lorry. Just like that. The poor driver had no chance.’

‘Bet that went down well with the wedding guests,’ I said.

‘I actually think my client was delighted,’ he said, grinning. ‘Saved him a fortune in alimony.’ We both laughed.

I was growing to like Bruce, and his confidence was growing too.

‘So tell me, what are we looking for at Barlow’s place?’ he said, changing the subject.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I always try to visit scenes of crime if I’m acting in a case. It helps me when it comes to questions in court. Also, it often gives some insight into the victim.’

‘So are you now acting in this case?’ he asked me.

‘Temporarily,’ I said, smiling at him. But was I acting for the prosecution or the defence?

We finished our lunch and Bruce drove us the few hundred yards to Church Street, leaving my hired Mondeo in the pub car park. Honeysuckle Cottage was a beautiful old stone building set back from the road amongst a copse of tall horse-chestnut trees, their branches now bare of the leaves that lay deep and uncollected on the driveway. I couldn’t actually see or smell any of the honeysuckle after which the cottage had been named, but it was hardly the right season.

The place was surrounded on all sides by grand houses with large gardens, mostly invisible behind tall evergreen hedges or high stone walls. Not much chance here, I thought, of a nosey neighbour witnessing the comings and goings at the Barlow residence.

There were already two cars parked in front of a modern ugly concrete-block garage that had been built alongside the cottage with no respect for its surroundings. The driver’s door of one of the cars opened and a young man got out as we pulled up behind him.

‘Mr Lygon?’ he asked, approaching.

‘That’s me,’ said Bruce, advancing and holding out his hand.

‘Detective Constable Hillier,’ said the young man, shaking it.

‘And this is Geoffrey Mason,’ said Bruce, indicating me. ‘Barrister in the case.’

DC Hillier looked me up and down and he, too, clearly thought I was under-dressed for the occasion. We shook hands, nevertheless.

‘This will have to be a quick visit, I’m afraid. I can give you no more than half an hour,’ said the policeman. ‘And we are not alone.’

‘Who else?’ I asked.

‘Barlow’s parents,’ he said. ‘Took a coach down from Glasgow. They’re inside at the moment.’ He nodded towards the house.

Oh bugger, I thought, this could be a more emotional encounter than I had expected.

And so it turned out.

DC Hillier introduced us to Mr and Mrs Barlow in the hallway of the cottage.

‘They are lawyers in the case,’ he said. Mr Barlow looked at us in disgust, he clearly didn’t like lawyers. ‘They are acting for Mr Mitchell,’ the policeman went on, rather unnecessarily, I thought.

Mr Barlow’s demeanour changed from disgust to pure hatred, as if it were we who had killed his son.

‘May you all burn in Hell for eternity,’ he said with venom. He had a broad Scottish accent and the word ‘burn’ sounded like it could be spelt as ‘berrrrn’. Bruce seemed rather taken aback by this outburst.

‘We’re only doing our job,’ he said, defending himself.

‘But why?’ Mr Barlow said. ‘Why are ye givin’ that man any assistance? He is sent from the Devil, that one.’

‘Now, now, dear,’ said Mrs Barlow laying a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Remember what the doctor said. Do not stress yourself.’

Barlow relaxed a fraction. He was a big tall man with heavy jowls and bushy eyebrows and he was wearing an ill-fitting dark suit with no tie. Mrs Barlow, in contrast, had a slight frame, was a good eight inches shorter than her husband and had a head of tightly curled grey hair. She wore an inappropriately cheerful flowery dress that appeared to be at least two sizes too big for her, and which hung on her like a sack.

‘Aye, woman,’ he said, irritated. He flicked his wife’s hand from his sleeve. ‘But he is still an evil one, that Mitchell.’

‘He hasn’t actually been convicted yet,’ I said. It was a mistake. His doctor wouldn’t have thanked me.

‘I tell you,’ Mr Barlow almost shouted, jabbing his right index finger towards me. ‘That man is guilty and he shall have to answer to our Lord. And it’s not just Hamish that he killed, but both of our bairns.’

‘Who’s Hamish?’ I said. Another mistake.

‘Hamish, man,’ bellowed Barlow in a full rage. ‘My son.’

Bruce Lygon grabbed my arm and spoke quickly into my ear. ‘Scot Barlow’s real name was Hamish.’ I felt a fool. How could I have not known? On the racecourse, Barlow was always referred to as Scot, but, I now realized, that must have been only because he was one.

‘But what did you mean about Mitchell killing both your children?’ I asked him, recovering my position a little.

‘He killed our Millie,’ said Mrs Barlow quickly in a quiet, mellow tone that hung in the air.

‘I thought she killed herself,’ I said as gently as possible.

‘Aye, but that man was still responsible,’ said Mr Barlow.

‘How so?’ I said pressing the point.

‘He was fornicating with my daughter,’ said Mr Barlow, his voice rising in both tone and volume. I considered it a strange turn of phrase. And, surely, I thought, it takes two to fornicate, like to tango.

‘How does that make him responsible for her death?’ I asked.

‘Because,’ said Mrs Barlow in her gentle tone, ‘he dumped her for someone else on the day she died.’

I wondered again why Steve Mitchell hadn’t thought it was important enough to tell me that. And what was more, if what the Barlows said was true, then he had lied to me more than I thought, and I still didn’t like being lied to by my clients. I didn’t like it one little bit.