by Dick Francis
‘She must have ordered it separately from them,’ I said.
‘No,’ she replied quickly. ‘They had to check their records for the police and there was nothing.’
‘How odd,’ I said.
‘Even if she had wanted to, she would have had trouble using any of the hospital stuff anyway,’ said Eleanor. ‘We have a very tight system of control. Anything like anaesthetic has to be signed out of the hospital drug store by two vets. Look, I’ve got to go. We aren’t normally open after six and there’s someone waiting to lock up.’
‘How about the horse you operated on?’ I said.
‘He’s in the stables at the back now for the night. He has a monitor on him and CCTV to the duty vet’s room. Otherwise we’re closed, except, of course, for emergencies.’
‘But I would really like to ask you some more questions about Millie,’ I said imploringly.
‘Let me get changed first,’ she said. ‘I fancy a drink. Are you buying?’
‘How about supper?’ I said.
‘Don’t push your luck, Mr…’ She looked again at my card. ‘Geoffrey Mason.’
‘No. Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Just when I thought I was being asked out on a date, he says he didn’t mean it.’ She laughed. ‘Story of my life.’
We went in separate cars to the Queen’s Arms in East Garston, a village a few miles away.
‘Let’s not go to a pub in Lambourn,’ Eleanor had said. ‘Too many listening ears and wagging tongues.’
I was there well ahead of her. I ordered myself a diet Coke and perched on a bar stool, thinking about what questions I needed to ask and wondering why I thought that Millie Barlow’s death could have anything to do with that of her brother.
I just didn’t like coincidences, although they could never be used as evidence on their own. After all, coincidences do happen. Like all the ones involving the assassinated presidents Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy. Lincoln had a secretary called Kennedy, and Kennedy had a secretary called Lincoln, and both were succeeded by a Vice-President Johnson. But I still didn’t like them.
I did not immediately recognize Eleanor Clarke when she walked into the dimly lit bar. She had changed out of her functional green scrubs and rubber boots and was now wearing a white rib-pattern roll-neck sweater over blue jeans. However, the main reason I didn’t know her at first was because her blonde hair was no longer tied in a ponytail but hung down close to each side of her face. My first instinct was that the change of hairstyle was a mistake as it hid her beautiful arched cheekbones and somewhat reduced the sparkle from her stunning blue eyes.
I was suddenly quite shocked by these thoughts. I had hardly given a woman’s face a second glance since the day I had first met and fallen instantly in love with Angela, and I had certainly not thought of beautiful cheekbones or stunning blue eyes on anyone else.
‘There you are,’ said Eleanor, coming over and sitting on the bar stool next to mine.
‘What are you drinking?’ I asked her.
‘G and T, please.’
I ordered and we sat in silence as the barman poured the tonic over the gin.
‘Lovely,’ she said, taking a large gulp. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘I’d better order you another,’ I said.
‘I’m driving,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have the one.’
‘You could stay for dinner,’ I said.
‘I thought you didn’t really mean it.’ She looked at me with the sparkly blue eyes. They smiled at me.
‘I meant that,’ I said. ‘I just didn’t mean…’ I was getting lost for words. ‘You know, anything else.’
‘Like what?’ she said all seriously, but now with laughter in her eyes.
‘Were you a barrister in a past life?’ I said. ‘I feel that I’m being questioned in court.’
‘Answer the question,’ she demanded with a stare.
‘I just didn’t want you to think I was propositioning you or anything.’
‘And were you?’ she asked.
‘No, of course not,’ I said.
‘Oh thanks. Am I that unattractive?’
‘No. I didn’t mean that.’
‘We seem to be going round in circles here, Mister Barrister Man,’ she said. ‘So what did you mean?’
‘I thought it was going to be me asking you the questions,’ I said. ‘Not the other way round.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’m ready. Ask away.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Firstly, will you stay to dinner?’
‘Yes,’ she replied without hesitation.
‘Good,’ I said.
‘Are you married?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Why?’
‘I just wondered,’ she said.
I didn’t immediately respond.
‘Well, are you?’ she persisted.
‘Why do you want to know?’ I asked again.
‘Need to know where I stand,’ she said.
‘But I’m not propositioning you, so why does it matter?’ I said.
‘You might change your mind,’ she said. ‘And I can’t be bothered to invest any emotion unless I know where I stand. So, are you married?’
‘Are you?’ I asked her back.
‘Only to my job,’ she said. She waited a moment in silence. ‘Well?’
‘I was,’ I said slowly.
‘Divorced?’ she said.
‘Widowed.’
‘Oh.’ She was embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ I said. But it felt like only yesterday.
She sat silently as if waiting for me to go on. I didn’t.
‘Still painful?’ she asked.
I nodded.
‘Sorry,’ she said again. Some of the sparkle had gone out of her eyes.
We sat in silence for a while.
‘What do you want to know about Millie?’ she asked eventually.
‘Let’s go and eat,’ I said.
We opted for a table in the bar rather than in the restaurant. No tablecloth, less formal, but the same menu.
I chose a fillet steak while Eleanor decided on the pan-fried sea bream.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ I asked her.
‘I’m still driving,’ she said.
‘You could leave your car here,’ I said. ‘I’m sure the pub won’t mind if you leave it in their car park. I could drop you back at the hospital and you could collect it in the morning.’
‘How about you?’ she said. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘I’m on diet Coke but I’ll have a small glass of red with my dinner,’ I said. ‘I do have to drive. Back to London tonight.’ I had rented the car for only two days.
‘Couldn’t you stay down here and go in the morning?’ she said.
‘Are you propositioning me now?’ I asked.
She blushed. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
Pity, I thought, again surprising myself.
I could always have called Hertz to keep the car for another day, but somehow I felt that I was betraying my Angela even to contemplate spending the night away from home, especially in order to have a lengthy dinner with another woman. I told myself not to be such a fool, but I felt it nevertheless.
‘How well did you know Millie?’ I asked, changing the subject and saving us both some embarrassment.
‘Pretty well,’ she said. ‘We worked together at the hospital for three years and lived in the house together for most of that time.’
‘Do you know why she killed herself?’ I asked.
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘She seemed pretty happy to me.’
‘Did she have money worries?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Eleanor replied emphatically. ‘In fact she always seemed rather well off. She bought a brand-new red Mazda sports car the year before she died and she always had lots of nice clothes. I think her father still sent her an allowanc
e, even though we all earn pretty good money at the hospital.’
I thought back to my earlier encounter with the Barlow parents in their ill-fitting clothes. Did they seem the sort of people who could afford to send their high-earning daughter an allowance?
‘Was she pregnant?’ I said. It was only a wild thought.
‘I think it highly unlikely,’ said Eleanor. ‘She used to boast that she had a good supply of the morning-after pill just in case she forgot to take her other pills. She was medically trained, remember.’
‘And medics have a higher suicide rate than almost every other profession,’ I said.
‘Do they?’ She seemed surprised.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I had to research the rates last year for a case where a doctor was accused of assisting a suicide.’
‘I suppose medics have the knowledge of how to take their own lives,’ she said.
‘Painlessly, you mean,’ I said.
‘Absolutely. Just like putting an old dog to sleep,’ she said. ‘They also have easy access to the necessary drugs.’
‘Did Millie get on with her brother?’ I asked.
‘Well enough, I think,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think he was too happy with her reputation.’
‘Reputation?’ I asked.
‘For being the easiest ride in the village.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not really a reputation to cherish.’ Especially not in Lambourn, where riding was its lifeblood. ‘How many casual lovers would you say she had?’
‘At least half a dozen on the go at once,’ she said. ‘I think you could safely say that she wasn’t particularly discreet. Suffice to say she liked jockeys.’
‘Was Reno Clemens one of them?’ I asked.
‘Probably,’ she said. ‘I didn’t actually keep a list, but he was often around her. I sometimes saw them together in the pub.’
‘But you didn’t see him in her room?’ I said.
‘We have a sort of unwritten rule in the house,’ she said. ‘Long-term relationships are OK, but no casual partners to stay over. Needless to say, Millie broke it all the time. It was the only thing we argued about. But no, I can’t say I ever saw Reno there.’
‘How about Steve Mitchell?’ I asked. ‘Did he stay over?’
‘No never,’ she said. ‘Millie was always too keen to go to his place. She was always telling us about his hot tub.’ She lifted her eyebrows in disapproval.
‘Why exactly do you dislike Mitchell?’ I asked her.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘When I first came to Lambourn about ten years ago he was just starting as a jockey and we went out for a while. I thought he was serious but he wasn’t. He was two-timing me with some stable hand and, when the silly bitch got pregnant, he dumped me and married her.’ She paused. ‘I suppose she did me a favour really.’
‘How long did his marriage last?’ I asked.
‘About six years. They had two children and Steve became very successful. They built the Kremlin together.’
‘The Kremlin?’ I asked.
‘That’s what everyone calls that red-brick eyesore he now rattles around in on his own. When Natalie, his ex-wife, finally saw some sense and left him, he came back to my door and wanted to carry on as if nothing had happened. I told him to piss off and Steve didn’t like that. He likes to get his own way. I actually think he then made such a fuss over Millie to get back at me.’
So Steve’s affair with Millie Barlow hadn’t just been a fling as he had claimed, but had continued long after his wife had found out and left him. Mr and Mrs Barlow senior had been right, and Mitchell had indeed lied to me about it.
‘Didn’t Steve mind that she had other partners as well as him?’ I asked.
‘Mind? Are you kidding? According to Millie, Steve loved a threesome, or even more.’
‘Do you think she was telling the truth?’ I said.
‘You may have a point there. Millie was a good vet, very good in fact, but she was known to exaggerate things a tad.’
‘Do you remember a photo of her and a horse in a silver frame?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Her prized possession.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘It was a picture of her with a new-born foal,’ she said.
‘But why was it so special?’
‘It was the first foal she had ever delivered on her own, just after she arrived in Lambourn,’ she said. ‘Bit of an emergency in the middle of the night. She was the only vet on duty. But she did OK, apparently. I was away.’
I was disappointed. I thought it would be more interesting than that.
‘Why are you interested in the photo?’ she asked me.
‘Because someone took it from Scot Barlow’s house,’ I said.
‘What, when he was murdered?’
‘That I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But it is missing now.’
‘Perhaps it was for the silver frame,’ she said.
‘No. Whoever took the photo left the frame. That’s how I know the photo’s gone.’
‘Well, I can tell you that it was of Millie and a foal that was lying in the straw, with the mare and a stud groom behind.’
‘Do you know who the stud groom was?’ I asked. ‘Or who took the photo?’
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘But I know which foal it was. That’s why it was Millie’s prize possession.’
‘Go on,’ I encouraged her as she paused.
‘Peninsula,’ Eleanor said with a flourish.
Was that the reason why Millie Barlow was at Simon Dacey’s party? Or was that just a coincidence? But, I didn’t like coincidences.
CHAPTER 7
By the time of the Steeplechase Festival at Cheltenham in March, Steve Mitchell had been in prison for four months and his name had all but been erased from the racing pages of the newspapers as well as from the considerations of the punters. With both Mitchell and Barlow out of the running, Reno Clemens had built up a commanding lead in the battle to be this year’s champion jockey and much was expected of him at the festival. Most of his mounts would start as favourite.
Bruce Lygon had done his best at Oxford Crown Court in November to get Steve Mitchell bail but, unsurprisingly, the judge had listened to him with courtesy and then had promptly declined his application. I had sat beside Bruce in court but I hadn’t really helped him much. I don’t think it would have made much difference if I had. Letting murder suspects out on bail was never going to endear a judge to the general public and a few recent high-profile cases where the suspects had murdered again while out on bail had put paid to even the slimmest of chances.
I hadn’t actually planned to attend the bail hearing but I had received another little reminder from God-knows-who two days before it was due to take place. It had been another slim white envelope delivered as before to my chambers by hand. It had been found on the mat inside the front door and no one had seen who had left it there. Again, in the envelope there had been a single sheet of folded white paper and a photograph. Thankfully the message hadn’t been backed up this time by a personal visit from Julian Trent. However, the memory of his previous visit had remained vivid enough in my consciousness for the sweat to break out on my forehead as I had held the envelope tightly in my hands.
As before, there had been four lines of black print across the centre of the paper.
GOOD LITTLE LAWYER
I WILL BE WATCHING YOU IN OXFORD ON WEDNESDAY
DON’T GET MITCHELL BAIL
REMEMBER, LOSE THE CASE OR SOMEONE GETS HURT
The photograph had been of my dead wife Angela. In fact, to be accurate, it had been a photograph of a photograph of Angela in a silver frame. Around the sides I could see a few of the other things on the surface on which the frame had stood. I had known those items. The photograph of Angela was the one of her smiling that I had placed on her dressing table in our bedroom soon after she died. I said ‘good morning, my darling’ to that photograph every day. Someone
had been into my house to take that shot. It made me very angry, but I was also more than a little afraid. Just who were these people?
I sat at my desk in chambers twiddling my thumbs and thinking. It was Monday morning and I was having a few easy days. In order to prevent a repeat of last year, when I had been stuck in court instead of jumping my way round Cheltenham on Sandeman’s back in the Foxhunter Chase, I had instructed Arthur to schedule absolutely nothing for the whole week.
I had recently finished acting for a large high-street supermarket in an out-of-date food case, which my client had won. Such relatively low-key cases were the bread and butter of many junior barristers, and highly sought after. In the big, high-profile criminal cases, the lead for the defence was almost invariably taken by a silk, a Queen’s Counsel. However, many companies, especially large well-known firms, often preferred to engage a junior in cases where they were dealing with the ‘little people’, mostly their staff or their suppliers, or with simple breaks in hygiene regulations. To turn up at a magistrates court with a QC in tow seemed to imply they were guilty, quite apart from the excessive fees of a silk. Many a junior has made a fine reputation and an excellent living from the work. Some juniors, indeed, declined the chance to be promoted to QC for fear of losing their fee-base altogether.
Personally, I enjoyed the criminal Crown Court work far more, but I earned most of my money either in the magistrates’ courts or at the disciplinary hearings of professional institutions.
But not this week. I was determined not to miss out again on a ride in the Foxhunters. Sandeman had qualified partly by virtue of winning the race last year and Paul had assured me at the end of January that the horse was fitter this time, implying that failure to win again this year would not be Sandeman’s fault. It had been a direct warning to me not to be the weak link in the partnership, an explicit instruction to get myself fit.
For weeks now I had been running every day, mostly at lunchtime, which had the added advantage of avoiding the temptation to eat with fellow counsel either in the Hall at Gray’s Inn, or at one of the many hostelries situated close to our chambers.
In addition, in mid February I had been skiing for a long weekend in Meribel in France and had pushed my aching legs time and again down the mountains. I loved to ski but, on this occasion, it had been ski boot-camp. I had risen early each morning in the chalet I’d shared with four other complete strangers whose sole passion in life was the snow. We had spent the whole day on the slopes, catching the very last lift of the day to the highest point and arriving back at the chalet exhausted, just as the daylight faded. Then I would spend hours in the sauna, sweating off the pounds, before a high-protein dinner and an early bed.