by Dick Francis
He seemed a little taken aback and looked around to see if anyone else had heard me. Theobald’s Road was a busy place at seven o’clock on a sunny May evening and a continuous stream of pedestrians flowed past the gated entrance. A few heads had turned as I’d shouted but no one had actually stopped.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ I shouted again. ‘I asked you what the hell do you want.’
He was definitely unnerved by a reaction he hadn’t been expecting.
‘Did you get the message?’ he said.
‘Do you mean this?’ I shouted at him pulling the envelope and the paper out of my trouser pocket and ripping them both into several pieces. By this time he was standing less than ten feet from me. I threw the bits of paper into the air and they fluttered to the ground at his feet. ‘Now sod off,’ I shouted at him.
‘Stop shouting,’ he said.
‘Why should I?’ I shouted even louder, the sound of my voice echoing back to me from the buildings all around us. ‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Shut up,’ he said, hissing at me.
I stood my ground and raised one of the crutches as a potential weapon. ‘I’ll shut up,’ I shouted at the top of my voice, ‘when you go away and leave me in peace.’
He clenched and unclenched his right fist. Perhaps he was regretting not bringing his baseball bat with him after all.
‘Do as you’re told,’ he said menacingly, again almost under his breath, as if being extra quiet might compensate for my extra noisiness.
‘Why?’ I shouted again at full volume. ‘Who wants me to? Who are you working for, you little creep? Get out of my life, do you hear? And stay out.’
One or two heads out on Theobald’s Road were turned our way and one man stopped and stared at us. Julian Trent seemed to be losing his nerve.
‘You’ll regret this,’ he said quietly through gritted teeth. ‘You’ll bloody regret this.’
And with that, he was gone, dodging out through the gateway, past the staring pedestrian, and off down Theobald’s Road towards Clerkenwell. I stood there for a moment breathing deeply and wondered if I had made a big mistake. Perhaps, as Trent had said, I would regret it. But simply rolling over was not an option. I would not be dictated to, and my father and Eleanor would, like me, have to take their chances. To succumb to these threats in this case would simply invite more threats in the future. Both Josef Hughes and George Barnett had complied with the first demands and, in each case, the menace had returned for more.
I was aware that over the past few months I had become fairly ambivalent about the outcome of the Steve Mitchell trial. If he was convicted, then I would have nothing to fear from Julian Trent, or whoever was behind him. If he was acquitted then I could hold my head up for justice.
Now, suddenly, the result became incredibly important to me. If Mitchell was innocent, and I was sure that he must be, then I had to find a way to show it. And to do that, I had to find out who actually had committed the murder, and soon.
As things stood, I was pretty sure that he would be convicted simply because there was no credible indication to show that he didn’t do it and the circumstantial evidence would be enough to sway the jury. True, there was none of Mitchell’s DNA at the scene, but Barlow’s blood and DNA had been found on Mitchell’s boots and in his car, and that alone was very damning. If I were the prosecutor in the case, I would be highly confident of a guilty verdict. Even Sir James Horley QC, who was meant to be leading for the defence, seemed sure of the defendant’s guilt and had even suggested to me that I go and see Mitchell in prison and encourage him to plead guilty. I had the distinct impression that, just this time, Sir James was going to be happy to let me conduct the case throughout. I suspected that he would find a good reason not to go to Oxford on the first day, and then he would use that as the excuse for not going at all. And that would suit me just fine.
But, short of resorting to the Trent method of intimidating the jury into returning a ‘not guilty’ verdict, I still couldn’t see what I could do to get Mitchell off the charge.
What exactly was Julian Trent’s connection with racing, and with a murdered jockey? Was the man who had been to see both Josef Hughes and George Barnett actually Julian Trent’s father or was it somebody else? It was time to find out.
Eleanor was at the restaurant in Berkeley Square before me. She was seated on a stool at the bar facing away from me. I could see her back. I had been looking forward to this evening all day, so why did I now have cold feet? Why, all of a sudden, did I experience the urge to run away? Why did I feel so afraid? I had just faced up to Julian Trent, so why should I have any fears of Eleanor?
She turned round on the stool, saw me at the door, smiled and waved. I waved back. What, I asked myself, was I really afraid of here? It was a question I couldn’t even begin to answer.
Over dinner, Eleanor and I discussed everything except ourselves, and specifically our relationship. I asked her about the equine symposium and she seemed to be surprised at how useful it was being.
‘I’ve learned a lot,’ she said over our starters. ‘Some of the new treatments have potential for us in Lambourn, especially in the treatment of ligaments and tendons. There are some wonderful things being done with artificial replacements. Some horses that in the past would have been retired due to tendon trouble will soon be able to continue racing.’
‘Bionic horses,’ I said flippantly. ‘The six-million-dollar horse.’
‘No. Much much more than that,’ she said, laughing. ‘Peninsula was syndicated to stud for ten times that.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘And to think he was foaled by a first-time vet.’
‘Quite a responsibility,’ she agreed. ‘But, of course, they didn’t know then how good he’d turn out to be.’
‘I wish I had a copy of that photograph,’ I said.
‘The one of Millie with Peninsula as a foal?’ Eleanor said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was taken from Scot Barlow’s house the day he was murdered.’
‘You really think it’s important?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But the murderer must have thought it was important enough to remove from its frame and take away with him.’
‘How do you know it was the murderer who took it?’ she asked.
‘I don’t for sure,’ I said. ‘But whoever did take it also took care to wipe the frame clean. There were no fingerprints on it.’
‘I remember that photograph so well,’ Eleanor said. ‘Millie showed it to everyone. She kept it on the mantelpiece in her room and she was always polishing the frame.’
‘Describe it,’ I said.
‘It was just a photo,’ she said. ‘Millie was kneeling on the straw with the foal’s head in her lap. The mare was standing behind them but you couldn’t really see her properly. You could only see her hind quarters.’
‘Wasn’t there someone else in it as well?’ I asked.
‘There was the stud groom standing behind Millie. I think he was cleaning the mare after foaling, you know.’
I couldn’t see how it was so important.
‘And you don’t know who took the picture?’ I asked her.
‘No idea,’ she said.
‘Wasn’t Peninsula foaled at the Radcliffe place?’ I said.
‘They have lots of foals born there,’ Eleanor said. ‘They’ve made quite a business out of it. But we have less to do with them than we used to.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘They’ve got so big that they now have a resident vet. They don’t use the hospital practice any more unless one of their horses needs surgery.’
Our main courses arrived and we ate in silence for a few minutes.
‘Tell me what the doctor told you,’ Eleanor said between mouthfuls of sea bass.
‘I’ve got to wear this damned body shell for another six weeks at least,’ I said, ‘and it’s very uncomfortable.’
The restaurant had kindly given us a booth table and I was able to
sit half sideways and lean back against the wall whenever it began to hurt too much.
‘But at least that cast is off your leg,’ she said.
‘Thank goodness,’ I said. I had been trying to bend my knee ever since the hospital circular saw had sliced through the last inch of the cast and set my leg free. So far I had only managed about twenty to thirty degrees, but that was a huge improvement over dead straight.
Main course finally gave way to coffee, with a Baileys on the rocks for her and a glass of port for me.
‘I asked the surgeon when I could ride again,’ I said, watching her face carefully to spot any reaction.
‘And?’
‘He said that my bones would be fully healed and as good as new in about three months, but he wasn’t so sure about my brain.’
‘What about your brain?’ she asked.
‘He said it couldn’t take too many bangs like that.’
‘Seems all right to me,’ she said, smiling at me broadly with her mouth slightly open and all her perfect top teeth showing. The sparkle in her lovely blue eyes was there again, the same sparkle I had noticed at the equine hospital at our first meeting.
I sat opposite her and smiled back. But then suddenly I looked away, almost in embarrassment.
‘Tell me about her,’ she said.
‘About who?’ I asked. But I knew who she meant before she replied.
‘Angela.’
‘There’s not much to tell really,’ I said, trying to deflect her direct approach. ‘Why do you want to know?’
She sat silently for a while, looking up at the ceiling as if making a decision. The jury was out deliberating.
Finally, she looked down again at my face and answered softly, ‘I need to know what I’m up against.’
I looked down at the table and cupped my mouth and nose in my hands. I breathed out heavily once or twice, feeling the hot air on my skin. Eleanor just sat quietly, leaning forward slightly, with an expectant expression on her face.
‘We met while I was doing the Bar Vocational Course, that’s the course you study to become a barrister,’ I said. ‘Angela was a second-year student at King’s reading clinical psychology. We were both guests at the same party and we just clicked. Right there and then.
‘We got married six months after that first meeting, in spite of her parents’ disapproval. They wanted her to wait until after she had finished her degree but we were so keen to marry straight away. There was a huge row and they never really forgave us. Silly really, but it seemed to matter so much to us back then. Now her mother blames me for her death.’
Eleanor reached forward across the table and took my hand.
‘We were so blissfully happy together for five years. She wanted to have a baby as soon as we were married but I talked her into waiting until she had qualified, but then we discovered that having a child was not as straight forward as we thought. We tried for ages without success, but a scan then showed that her tubes were blocked so we had to try for in vitro, you know, test-tube baby and all that. And that worked absolutely straight away. It was brilliant. And we were both so pleased that she was carrying a boy.’
I stopped. Tears welled in my eyes for Angela and our unborn son.
‘She was eight months pregnant when she died.’ I had to stop again and take a few deep breaths. Eleanor went on holding my hand and saying nothing.
‘It was a pulmonary embolism,’ I said. ‘I found her lying on the floor. The doctors said it would have been very sudden.’ I sighed loudly. ‘That was more than seven years ago now. Sometimes it seems like yesterday.’ I let go of Eleanor’s hand and held the cotton table napkin up to my face. It was as much as I could do not to sob.
We sat there together in silence for what felt like ages until a waiter came over and asked us if we wanted some more coffee.
‘Thanks,’ I said, back in control. He poured the hot black liquid into our cups and then left us alone again.
‘So,’ said Eleanor with a sigh. ‘Not much chance for me then.’
We laughed, a short embarrassed laugh.
‘Give me some more time,’ I said. But I’d had seven years. How much longer did I need?
‘How much more time?’ she said.
‘I don’t know,’ I said in exasperation.
‘But I need to,’ she said in all seriousness. She stared at my face. ‘I like you, Mister Barrister. I like you a lot. But I do need some response if I’m going to invest my time and my emotions. I’m thirty-three years old and, as they say, my body clock is ticking. I want…’ She tailed off and dropped her eyes.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You… I think,’ she said, suddenly looking back up at my face. ‘And a house and kids and … family life.’ She paused and I waited patiently. ‘When I started out as a vet, with all the years of training, I only cared about my job and my career. I loved it, and I still do. But now I find I need more than just that. I realize that I want what my parents had,’ she said. ‘Love, home and family.’ She paused again for a moment and took my hand again in hers. ‘And I think I want it with you.’
CHAPTER 12
Eleanor went back to her hotel near Tower Bridge for the night and I took a taxi home to Barnes. It wasn’t that we took a conscious decision to go in diametrically opposite directions, it was just sensible logistically. The equine symposium would start again for her at nine in the morning while, at the same time, I was due to be collected from my home by a car from a private hire company and taken to Bullingdon Prison to see my client. However, I now spent the whole journey home from the restaurant, along the Cromwell Road, past the V&Aand Natural History museums, under the dark sloping walls of the London Ark and across Hammersmith Bridge, wondering whether I should ask the taxi driver to turn round and take me back to Eleanor at the Tower.
Then, quite suddenly and before I had made up my mind, we were outside my home at Ranelagh Avenue in Barnes. I clambered unsteadily out of the cab and paid off the driver, who gunned his engine and noisily departed, no doubt back to the West End to find another late-night passenger in need of a ride home.
I stood for a moment on my crutches and looked at the old Edwardian property with its two side-by-side front doors and I speculated about what it was that had kept me here these past seven years. Perhaps I really had been foolish enough to think that life would have somehow returned to the blissful time with Angela. Maybe I had been living too long with my head in the sand and now was the time to make a fresh start with someone different. But how could I dispel the feeling that doing so would somehow be disloyal to Angela’s memory?
A car turned slowly into the far end of the avenue and all of a sudden I felt very vulnerable, standing alone on the poorly lit pavement at nearly midnight with no one else about, no one this time to come running to my rescue if I shouted. Even my downstairs neighbour’s lights were out. And Julian Trent, or whoever had been into my house to take that photograph, knew exactly where I lived.
I hurried as best I could up the half a dozen outside steps to the front doors and fumbled with my keys and the crutches. The car’s headlights moved little by little down the road towards me and then swept on past, round the bend and out of sight.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief, found the right key, and let myself in. I leaned up against the closed front door and found that I was trembling. I slid the bolt across behind me and carefully negotiated the stairs.
Why did I exist like this? I had asked myself that question umpteen times over the past weeks as I had struggled with the six steps up from the street to my front door and then the thirteen steps up from there to my sitting room. I had often not bothered with the twelve more to my bedroom, sleeping, instead, stretched out on the sofa. I had no garden, no terrace, no deck, not even a balcony. Just a view of Barnes Common, and even that was obscured in the summer months from all but the topmost bedroom windows by the leaves on the trees.
I had stayed here for the memories but maybe it was time now to make more me
mories elsewhere. Time to shake off this half-life existence. Time to live my life again to the full.
Steve Mitchell was a shell of his former self. As a jockey, he was well used to existing on meagre rations, and prison food was not exactly appealing to the discerning palate. But it was not the lack of food that had made the greatest difference to Steve, it was the lack of his daily diet of riding up to six races with the muscle toning and stamina which comes from regular exercise as a professional sportsman. He looked pale, thin and unfit, because he was, but he seemed to be coping fairly well mentally, considering the circumstances. Steeplechase jockeys had to be strong in mind as well as in body, to cope with the inevitable injuries that came with the job.
‘What news?’ he said, sitting down opposite me at the grey table in the grey interview room.
‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ I said.
He looked at the crutches lying on the floor beside me. This was the first visit I had been able to make to see him since my fall at Cheltenham.
‘Sandeman?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Read about it in the paper,’ he said. ‘Knees are a bugger.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘Also read about that bastard Clemens winning the Gold Cup on my bloody horse,’ he said. The ‘bastard’ tag, I noticed, had now been moved from Scot Barlow to Reno Clemens. ‘It’s bloody unfair.’
Yes, it was, but, as my mother had told me as a child, life is unfair.
‘But you did meet with Sir James Horley?’ I said it as a question. ‘When I couldn’t make it last time.’
‘Bit of a cold fish, if you ask me,’ said Steve. ‘Didn’t like him much. He kept talking to me as if I’d done it. Even asked me to examine my conscience. I told him to bloody sod off, I can tell you.’
I knew. I had heard about it at length from Sir James on his return from Bullingdon to Gray’s Inn. As a rule Sir James didn’t much care for visiting his clients on remand, and this time had been no exception. He preferred that to be a job for his junior, but I had been rather incapacitated and he’d had no alternative but to go himself. The interview had clearly not gone well. Mitchell may not have liked his lead counsel very much but that was nothing compared to the utter disdain in which Sir James now held his client. Not for the first time I thought that Sir James would be rather pleased to lose this case.
