Dick Francis - Silks

‘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.’