Dick Francis - Silks

Without warning my eyes began to fill with tears. I couldn’t help it.

The lady vet in the green scrubs chose this moment to reappear. I quickly wiped my eyes on my sleeve and hoped she hadn’t noticed.

‘Now how can I help you?’ she asked wearily.

‘Busy day?’ It was more of a statement than a question.

‘You bet,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I think we saved Mr Radcliffe his money.’

‘Bad?’ I said.

‘Not life threatening,’ she said. ‘But it could have stopped him racing if we hadn’t been careful. We had to rejoin some tendons and sew back some muscle tissue. He’s young. He should heal as good as new. Stupid horse gashed its shoulder on a car wing mirror after breaking free.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Simon Dacey told me.’

She raised her eyebrows in slight surprise.

‘And who are you exactly?’ she asked.

‘Geoffrey Mason,’ I said, pulling out another card from my pocket and handing it over.

‘Not selling, are you?’ she asked, glancing briefly at the card.

‘No,’ I laughed. ‘I’m after some information.’

‘Why?’ she said. ‘What information?’

‘I’m a barrister and I’m representing Steve Mitchell.’ There I go again, I thought.

‘Arrogant little shit,’ she said, somewhat surprisingly.

‘Is he?’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘Thinks he’s God’s gift to women,’ she said. ‘Expects every female round here to drop their knickers on demand.’

‘And do they?’ I asked.

She looked at me and smiled. ‘Remind me never to be in the witness box when you’re asking the questions.’

‘I’ll try.’ I smiled back. ‘But at least tell me your name so I can be sure.’

‘Eleanor Clarke,’ she said, reaching out a hand, which I shook. ‘I thought you said you wanted to ask about Millie Barlow.’

‘I do,’ I said. ‘Did you know her?’

‘Certainly did,’ said Eleanor. ‘She lived in the house here with three others of us.’

‘House?’ I asked.

‘Yes, there’s a house out the back where some of the staff who work here live. I live there and Millie lived there until…,’ she tailed off and looked down.

‘Until she killed herself?’ I asked, finishing her sentence.

‘Yes,’ she said, looking back at my face. ‘That’s right, until she killed herself. But she didn’t sleep there every night.’

‘Because she was with Steve Mitchell?’ I said it as a question.

‘Yes,’ she replied rather hesitantly.

‘Was she sleeping with anyone else?’ I asked.

‘God, you’re sharp,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid our Millie would sleep with anyone who asked nicely.’

‘Any man, you mean,’ I said.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Millie wasn’t really that choosy. But she was a sweet girl. We all missed her after…’

‘Why do you think she did it?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Lots of people said afterwards that she had been depressed but I didn’t think so. She was always so happy. She always had a plan to get rich quick.’

‘Was she selling sex?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said with some emphasis. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, perhaps I exaggerated a bit. She didn’t sleep with everyone. She had her favourites. And she would say no occasionally, especially to some of the married ones. She wasn’t all bad.’

‘But she was living with Steve Mitchell?’ I asked.

‘Not really,’ Eleanor said. ‘She lived in the house here but she did spend nights away with Mitchell, yes. Him more than any other, I’d say. But they were hardly living together.’ I wondered if Mrs Barlow would be pleased or not. I wondered how strict Millie’s upbringing had been. Maybe as soon as she was free of her father’s control she went a little mad, sampling life’s pleasures in excess.

‘How did she get the anaesthetic?’ I asked.

‘Well, we have it here, of course, but it’s funny.’ She paused.

‘What’s funny?’ I encouraged.

‘The toxicology report on Millie indicated that she had injected herself with thiopental.’

I looked at her quizzically. ‘Why is that funny?’ I asked.

‘We don’t use thiopental in the hospital. We use ketamine, usually mixed with either xylazine or detomidine.’ I raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘They’re sedatives,’ she explained, leaving me none the wiser. ‘Both types will cause unconsciousness, but thiopental is a barbiturate anaesthetic and ketamine is a hydrochloride salt.’

‘Isn’t it a bit odd that she used a different drug than you use at the hospital?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘a vet can get medicines from any drug supplier just by filling in a form. And anaesthetics are used by vets all the time.’

‘But it does mean she didn’t kill herself on the spur of the moment,’ I said. ‘Not if she had to order the stuff especially rather than just take some from here.’

‘She may have already had it,’ Eleanor said. ‘I have a few things in my bag that didn’t come from the hospital drug store. And barbiturate anaesthetics are used a lot. Thiopental is what’s used every day in most vets’ practices to put dogs and cats to sleep.’

‘Where does the hospital get its drugs?’ I asked her.

‘We have a specialist veterinary pharmacist in Reading,’ she said. ‘We have a delivery almost every day during the week.’

‘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.