Dick Francis - Under Orders

I walked round behind the chair and bent down close to Juliet’s ear.

‘I told them that maybe that was because I had bought them for her myself. And who was I, they had asked. George Lochs, I’d said. Well, of course, Mr Lochs, they said, how nice to hear from you again. Now, which pair was it? So I described the turquoise pair you can see in the photographs and they knew it straight away.’

I didn’t tell her that I had also called Gucci and Armani, saying I was George Lochs. They, too, had all been so pleased to hear from me again.

‘So what if George did buy them for me,’ Juliet said. ‘There’s no crime in that.’

‘Were they payment for services?’ I said.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Was he buying sex?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, offended. ‘What do you think I am, a prostitute?’

No. I thought she might be a murderer but I didn’t say so. Not yet.

I changed direction.

‘Don’t you think someone did a great job at cleaning up this room?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean?’ Juliet said.

‘This is where Bill Burton died. Look,’ I pointed, ‘you can still see the stain where his brains splattered on the wall.’

I caught sight of Chris’s horrified face. I nearly laughed. He’d had no idea.

‘How could I forget,’ said Juliet, far less troubled.

‘Did you know I found a second bullet?’ I asked.

‘I read it in the paper,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know what you’re talking about anyway.’

‘I’m talking about the fact that Bill Burton was murdered and you know more about it than you’re telling.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m not saying another thing until I see a lawyer.’

‘A lawyer?’ I said. ‘Why do you need a lawyer? You’re not under arrest and I’m not the police.’

‘Am I free to go then?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Any time you like.’

‘Right.’ She stood up. ‘I will.’

‘But then I’ll have to tell the police about the DNA evidence.’

‘What DNA evidence?’ she snapped.

‘Your DNA evidence.’

‘You’re bluffing,’ she said.

‘Can you be sure?’ I asked. ‘Sit down, Juliet, I’m not finished yet.’

She slowly descended back into the chair.

‘Take a look at this.’ I handed her the photograph of her hairbrush.

‘How did you get these photographs?’

‘I visited your house,’ I said, ‘while you were at work.’

‘Is that legal?’ she asked.

‘I doubt it,’ I replied. ‘Have a close look and tell me what you see.’

‘A hairbrush,’ she said.

‘Not just any hairbrush, it’s your hairbrush,’ I said. ‘Anything else?’

She looked again at the picture. ‘No.’

‘Some hairs?’ I asked.

‘Everyone has hairs in their hairbrush.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But not Juliet Burns’s hairs. Did you know that you can obtain a DNA profile from a single hair follicle?’

She didn’t say anything.

‘Well, you can.’

I again went round behind her so that both our faces would be in the video recording.

‘And,’ I said, ‘I bet you don’t know that it was also possible to get your DNA from the saliva you used to lick the envelope of the “get well” card you left for me last Thursday.’

It was a bombshell. She jumped up. Her mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. She looked for a place to run and went over again to the door and wrestled with the knob. Another good thing about old houses is that they are well built. The door didn’t budge a fraction as she threw herself against it.

She looked at the windows as a route of escape.

‘Don’t even think about it, Juliet,’ I said.

She didn’t appear to be listening, so I shouted at her. ‘If you run away I’ll hand the whole lot over to the police.’

Her gaze swung round to my face. ‘And if I don’t?’ she said. Her brain was still ticking under all the external panic.

‘Then we’ll see,’ I said. ‘But I make no promises.’

‘I didn’t shoot your girlfriend,’ she said, still standing by the door.

I could see Chris desperately wanting to say something. I shook my head fractionally to stop him.

‘I know that,’ I said. ‘Marina was shot by a man. But you do know who it was, don’t you, Juliet?’

There was no reply.

‘Come and sit down again.’ I went over and took her arm, and led her back to the chair. ‘That’s better,’ I said as she sat down.

I sat down on a stool facing her, but not in the way of the camera.

‘And the same man murdered Huw Walker, didn’t he?’ I said.

She sat very still, looking at me. She said nothing.

‘And also Bill Burton?’

Again no response.

‘In this very room. And you were here at the time.’

‘No,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘That’s not true. I wasn’t here.’

‘But you didn’t find Bill in the morning like you said, did you?’

‘No.’

She began to cry and buried her head in her hands.

‘There have been lots of tears,’ I said. ‘The time has come, Juliet, to stop the crying and tell the truth. The time to put an end to this madness. To do no more damage.’

She rocked back and forth. ‘I never thought he would kill Huw Walker, or Bill,’ she said.

‘Who was it?’ I asked.

Still she didn’t reply.

‘Look, Juliet, I know you’ve been sleeping with someone. I found some of his clothes in a drawer beside your bed and his hair was also in the hairbrush. So I have his DNA and it matches that of the man who attacked Marina the first time, in Ebury Street. You won’t be able to protect George Lochs even if you won’t tell us he’s the murderer.’

She sat up and looked at me again. ‘George?’ she said. ‘You think it’s George Lochs?’

‘He bought you the clothes,’ I said.

‘You don’t know, do you?’ she said, almost sneering.

‘Know what?’

‘George is gay. He’d never sleep with me. I’ve got the wrong bits.’

It was my turn to stand with my mouth open. ‘Why, then, did he buy you the clothes?’ I asked.

‘As thank-you presents.’

‘For what?’

She didn’t answer. I stood up and walked round behind her.

‘Did George give you something every time you told him a horse wasn’t going to win?’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘I mean that it was you that was fixing the races, wasn’t it? It never was Bill. And George Lochs would have loved to have had the information so that he could adjust the odds on his website.’

‘Why would I fix races?’ she asked.

‘That I don’t know yet,’ I said, ‘but it has to be you that was doing it.’

‘But how could I?’ she said.

‘Because it was you that was responsible for helping the lads prepare the horses ready for running. Fred Manley told me that you had wanted that particular job and had badgered Bill until he gave you the task. Fred said that you also insisted on “putting them to bed” the night before they ran.’

I went back round in front of her.

‘And it was you that insisted on helping to groom each runner early in the morning of the race. You plaited their manes and polished their hooves. You took a pride in their presentation.’

She nodded. ‘We won lots of “best turned out” awards.’

‘But it also gave you the opportunity to keep the horses thirsty. You threw away their water the night before a race and again in the morning. You only then had to ensure that the horses had a good drink just before the race. If the water in their bellies didn’t slow them down, then the lack of water for nearly twenty-four hours beforehand would have done so.’