by Dick Francis
I went over to the kitchen sink to fetch Josef a glass of water. There were no glasses visible but there was a moderately clean though badly chipped coffee mug upturned on the drainer. I splashed some water into it and held it out to him.
He looked up at me in real horror, but he took the mug and drank some of the water. The colour in his face improved fractionally.
‘It’s all right,’ I said in as comforting manner as I could muster. ‘I haven’t been sent here by Julian Trent.’
At the sound of the name, the young woman gave out a slight moan and I was suddenly afraid that she too was about to pass out. I stepped towards her as if to catch her baby but she pulled the child away from me and curled her body round it as protection.
What on earth had Julian Trent done to these people to make them so afraid?
I looked around the room again. Everything was very basic, with threadbare carpets, paper-thin curtains and bare cream-painted walls that were overdue a redecoration. A plastic tubular travel cot was folded and leaned up against the wall behind the door with three blue baby romper suits hanging on it to dry.
‘We used to have the big flat on the top floor,’ said the girl, watching me look. ‘With our own bathroom. Then Joe lost his job and we had to move down here. Now, we share a bathroom on the landing with three other rooms.’
‘How old is the baby?’ I asked her.
‘Eight months on Friday,’ she said. I thought she was close to tears.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked her, smiling.
‘Rory,’ she said.
‘That’s nice,’ I said, smiling at her again. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘Bridget,’ she said.
We sat there in silence for a while, Josef and me on the bed, with Bridget holding Rory on the upright chair.
‘What do you want?’ Josef said eventually.
‘Tell me what happened,’ I said quietly.
Josef shivered next to me.
‘It was a man,’ said Bridget. ‘He came here, to our flat upstairs.’
‘No,’ said Josef suddenly and forcefully.
‘Yes,’ said Bridget back to him. ‘We need to tell someone.’
‘No, Bee,’ he said again firmly. ‘We mustn’t.’
‘We must,’ she pleaded. ‘We must. I can’t go on living like this.’ She started to cry.
‘I promise you,’ I said, ‘I’m here to try and help you.’ And to help myself.
‘He broke my arm,’ said Bridget quietly. ‘I was six months pregnant with Rory and he came into our flat, hit me in the face and punched me in my stomach. Then he broke my arm by slamming it in the door.’
‘Who did?’ I asked her. Surely, I thought, Julian Trent had been in prison.
‘Julian Trent’s father.’
CHAPTER 8
In the end, between them, they told me everything. It was a horror show.
The man who had said he was Julian Trent’s father had arrived wearing a smart suit and tie one evening soon after Josef had arrived home from his work at the Crown Prosecution Service. Josef had qualified as a solicitor only the year before and the CPS was his first job and he had loved it. He and Bridget had married while he was at the College of Law and they had moved into their first family home together in preparation for the birth of their first child. Everything was fine and they had been blissfully happy together. That is, until the shadow of Julian Trent had been cast over their lives.
At first the man had been nice and had even offered Josef some money to get some information for him.
‘What information?’ I asked him.
‘Stuff that was already in the public domain,’ he said.
‘What sort of stuff?’ I asked again.
‘Names and addresses of jurors,’ he said.
‘In the Julian Trent trial?’ I asked, but I already knew what the answer would be.
He nodded. ‘It was the first trial I had worked on at the Old Bailey. And the jurors’ names are in the transcript,’ he said in his defence. ‘Their names had been read out in open court.’ He was trying to justify his actions. The jurors’ names may have been in the public domain, but their addresses wouldn’t have been.
‘And we really needed the money,’ said Bridget. ‘What with the baby coming, there were things we had to buy.’
‘And it wasn’t against the law,’ said Josef, almost in despair.
‘But you knew it was wrong,’ I said to him. It may or may not have been against the letter of the law, I wasn’t sure, but it was definitely against the Law Society rules, and would quite likely have been in contempt of court.
He nodded again.
‘So when did he come back?’ I asked them.
‘The following day,’ Josef said. ‘He was meant to be bringing the money for the information I had ready for him.’
‘But he hit Bridget instead?’ I said.
He nodded again, and now tears welled up in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t believe it. He just walked straight into the flat and hit her. He knocked her down, then he dragged her over to the door and broke her arm while she was lying on the floor. It was horrible.’ The tears began to flow and he swallowed hard. ‘I felt so helpless to stop it.’
Bridget placed a hand on his arm. His tears flowed faster. ‘It all happened so fast,’ he wailed. It was obviously his inability to protect his wife that hurt him most.
‘Then what happened?’ I said.
‘He demanded the information,’ Josef said.
‘Did you give it to him?’ I asked.
‘I asked him for the money,’ he said. ‘But he said to give him the stuff immediately or he’d break Bridget’s other arm.’ He sobbed again.
‘What happened next?’ I asked when his sobs had diminished a little.
‘I had to get an ambulance,’ he said. ‘We were so afraid we would lose the baby. Bridget was in hospital for nearly a week.’
I had really meant what happened next with the man.
‘Did you call the police?’ I asked him.
‘The hospital did. They seemed to think that I had done it,’ he said. ‘The police didn’t believe me when I said it was another man.’
‘Did you tell them who he was?’ I asked. ‘Or what he wanted?’
‘No.’ He cried again. ‘He said he would come back and make Bridget lose the baby if we told anyone.’ He looked at me and I wondered if he was now thinking that telling me had been a mistake. ‘The man said that if we told anyone, he would make sure we would never be able to have any children ever.’
I was certain that Josef had believed it. Next time I’ll smash your head, next time I’ll cut your balls right off. I believed it, too.
‘But the man came back?’ I asked him.
‘Not in person,’ he said. ‘He sent me a letter at work the month after the trial was over.’
‘Saying what?’I asked, but I suspected I already knew that, too.
‘He told me to go to Julian Trent’s lawyer and tell him that I had talked to some of the jury to try and ensure that Julian Trent was convicted,’ he said in a rush. ‘But I hadn’t, I swear it.’ But he had sworn at the appeal hearing that he had. I had read the transcript.
‘Did the letter say which jurors you had to say you had approached?’ I asked him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Three of them.’
I knew their names too. They were also in the transcript.
‘What was the name of the lawyer?’ I asked. I had been Julian Trent’s defence lawyer at the trial.
‘Some solicitor in Weybridge,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember the name of the firm. Funny, though, I felt sure he was somehow expecting me when I arrived. He knew exactly what I was going to say.’
‘Please try and remember who it was,’ I said to him. The solicitor who had engaged me to act for Trent at his first trial had been from a central London firm, not one in Weybridge.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I had it on the letter, but the lawyer took that. I know it was in Weybridg
e High Street, above some shops. I could probably find it again. I was all in a bit of a daze.’
‘Was there anything else with the letter?’ I asked.
‘There was a photograph.’ He gulped. ‘It showed Bridget and me coming out of her ante-natal class at the local hospital. Someone had drawn an arrow on it with a red marker pen. The arrow was sticking into her stomach.’
Altogether I spent more than an hour with Josef and Bridget Hughes. Their lives had been totally destroyed by the visit of the friendly, well-dressed man offering money for information. He must have known they were young and vulnerable. He had drawn them into his scheme and tossed their futures away without a second thought. Josef had been stripped of the professional qualifications that he had worked so hard to obtain and had avoided a criminal prosecution only by a whisker.
But it was what he had done to their confidence that was worse. Bridget was now almost too timid to step out of her door. They were prisoners in a bed-sit, a bed-sit they could now hardly afford to live in with Josef having to do casual work stacking supermarket shelves at night. He would come home in the mornings with out-of-date food as part of his wages.
‘Please help us,’ Josef had pleaded as he came downstairs to the main door of the property. ‘I only keep going for Bee and Rory.’
‘How can I contact you?’ I asked him.
‘There’s a pay phone here.’ He pointed at it just inside the front door and I took down the number. I also gave him one of my cards.
‘Call me if you need anything,’ I said.
He nodded slightly, but I doubted that he would. His life may have been in tatters but he had kept his pride.
We shook hands inside the hallway and Josef peered cautiously round the door as he opened it to the street. I pressed some banknotes into his hand. He looked at the money and started as if to refuse it.
‘Buy some food for the baby,’ I said.
He looked up at my face. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, fighting back the tears. Things were so bad that he couldn’t refuse the cash, even though he clearly hated not doing so.
Next I went to see one of the three jurors from the original trial who had testified at the appeal and who lived in Hendon, close to Golders Green in north London.
George Barnett tried to slam the door in my face as soon as he saw who it was. He obviously recognized me from the trial, as I did him. He was the schoolmasterly white-haired gentleman who had been the jury foreman, but he seemed a shadow of his former self. Gone were the upright posture and the air of self-assurance. In their place there was an old-age stoop, and fear. Lots of fear.
‘Go away,’ he shouted through the crack in the door that my foot was preventing from closing. ‘I did what you asked. Now leave me alone.’
‘Mr Barnett,’ I called to him round the door. ‘I’ve come here to try and help you.’
‘That’s what he told me,’ he said.
‘I have not been sent by Mr Trent,’ I said back to him.
There was a muffled ‘Oh God’ from inside and he pushed harder on the door so that the wood bent. ‘Go away,’ he shouted again.
‘Mr Barnett,’ I called again, not moving my foot out of the door. ‘I was also beaten up by Julian Trent. I want to find out why. I need your help.’
‘Please go away,’ he said again, but this time he sounded tired.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I am going to move my foot now.’ I lifted it and he slammed the door shut.
‘Mr Barnett,’ I called through the door. ‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life in fear, or do you want to help me stop these people?’
‘Go away,’ he said again, pleading.
I pushed one of my business cards through his letter box. ‘Call me if you change your mind,’ I said. ‘I promise I’m on your side.’
He hadn’t actually told me anything useful but he had at least confirmed what I had suspected. Julian Trent, together with his friends and relations, had left a trail of broken lives wherever they went, attacking and then intimidating good people into doing what they wouldn’t normally contemplate, perverting the course of justice for their own ends and to hell with the consequences for everyone else, including me.
But I had no intention of living in fear for the rest of my life.
It was time to take a stand.
On Thursday, I left my troubles behind and went to Cheltenham for the races.
The Foxhunter Chase, my ambition, was the following afternoon, directly after the Gold Cup. Thursday was World Hurdle day, the long-distance hurdle race for the best ‘stayers’ in the country.
Today I was having a day off as a guest of a Lambourn horse-transport company that had hired a private box. I had acted for them the previous year when I had successfully defended a charge of careless driving against one of their drivers, and they were honouring their promise to give me a day at Cheltenham as a bonus.
The private box was on the top level of the huge grandstand that would later hold tens of thousands of cheering race fans, shouting home the winners at the greatest jump-race festival in the world. This was the meeting that all owners, trainers and jockeys worked towards for the preceding twelve months. The Grand National may be the most famous English steeplechase, known around the world, but the Cheltenham Festival is where most would love to win, especially one of the two major blue-riband events, the Gold Cup and the Champion Hurdle.
The festival excitement can be almost cut with a knife as the crowds stream through the turnstiles, eager to find themselves a pie and a pint before the serious business of choosing their fancies and placing their bets in good time to bag a vantage point on the grandstand steps.
Fortunately, for me, my vantage point was assured on the viewing balcony of the private box, so I had time to absorb the atmosphere, to walk amongst the tented village of shops and galleries, and to stroll through the Racing Hall of Fame on my way to level 5.
‘Ah, Geoffrey.’ Edward Cartwright, the transport-company owner extended a large plump hand as he came to meet me at the door. I shook it warmly. ‘Welcome to Cheltenham,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope for a great day.’ His gaze slid past me as another guest appeared behind me, his attention moving in turn to the new arrival.
The box was about four metres square and the centre was taken up with a large rectangular cloth-covered table set for lunch. I quickly scanned the places. There would be twelve of us in all, about half of whom had so far arrived. I gratefully accepted a glass of champagne that was offered by a small dark-haired waitress and then went out to join some of the other guests that I could see on the balcony outside.
‘Hello,’ said one of them. ‘Remember me?’
‘Of course,’ I said, shaking his hand. I had last seen him at the equine hospital in November. ‘How’s the yearling?’
‘Two-year-old now,’ Simon Dacey said. ‘Almost ready for the racecourse. No apparent ill effects, but you never know. He may have been faster still without the muscle damage.’
I looked at the other three people on the balcony.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Simon. ‘Can I introduce you to my wife, Francesca?’ I shook the offered petite hand. Francesca Dacey was blonde, tall, slim and wearing a yellow suit that touched her in all the right places. We smiled at each other. Simon waved towards the other two, a middle-aged couple, he in a pinstripe suit and she in an elegant long brown open jacket over a cream top and brown slacks. ‘And Roger and Deborah Radcliffe.’ Ah, I realized, they were the Peninsula connections.
‘Congratulations last June,’ I said. ‘With the Derby.’
‘Thank you,’ said Deborah Radcliffe. ‘Greatest day of our lives.’
I could imagine. I was hoping that the following day would prove to be mine. To win at Cheltenham was a dream, to have done so at Epsom in the Derby must be anyone’s lifetime ambition. But I could remember Simon Dacey saying when we met in the equine hospital that his party had been the best day of his life – until, that was, Millie Barlow had decided to kill herself in the
middle of it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Simon Dacey. ‘I remember you have horses with Paul Newington, but I’m afraid I have forgotten your name.’
‘Geoffrey Mason,’ I said.
‘Ah yes, Geoffrey Mason.’ The introductions were completed and hands shaken. ‘Lawyer, I think you said?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I replied. ‘But I’m here as an amateur jockey.’ I smiled. ‘I have a ride in the Foxhunters tomorrow.’
‘Best of luck,’ said Deborah Radcliffe, rather dismissively. ‘We don’t have any jumpers.’ She said it in a way that gave the impression that she believed jumpers weren’t real racehorses and were more of a hobby than proper racing, not like the flat. More fool her, I thought. I had always believed the reverse.
Roger Radcliffe, who obviously agreed with her, took the opportunity to move back inside the box to replenish his champagne. Why, I wondered, did they bother to come if they weren’t excited by the racing? But it was not my problem. I was in seventh heaven and my only concern was having too much to eat and drink today and having to put up overweight in the race tomorrow.
Francesca Dacey and Deborah Radcliffe moved to the far end of the balcony for, I imagined, some girly talk. It left Simon and me standing alone. There was an awkward silence for a few moments as we both drank from our champagne glasses.
‘Didn’t you say you were acting for Steve Mitchell?’ Simon Dacey finally asked, almost with relief.
‘That’s right,’ I said, relaxing. ‘I’m one of his barristers.’
‘When’s the trial?’ he asked.
‘Second week in May.’
‘Has Mitchell been inside all this time?’ he said.
‘Certainly has,’ I said. The defence had applied twice for bail without success. Two chances were all you had.
‘Can you get him off?’ he asked.
‘One doesn’t get people off,’ I said sarcastically. ‘It is my job to help the jury determine if he is guilty or not. I hope to provide them with sufficient doubt.’
