Dick Francis - Silks

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.’

‘Beyond a reasonable doubt,’ he said as if quoting.

‘Exactly.’

‘But there is always some doubt, isn’t there?’ he said. ‘Unless you have it on film.’

‘There’s some doubt even then,’ I said. ‘Gone are the days of a hard negative to work from. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that a digital camera never lies. They do, and often. No, my job is to persuade the jury that any doubt they may have is at least reasonable.’

‘How genteel.’ He laughed.

Genteel is not how I would describe the Julian Trent baseballbat approach to persuasion.

‘Have you ever heard of anyone called Julian Trent?’ I asked him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Should I?’

‘I just wondered,’ I said. He hadn’t appeared to be lying. If he was, he was good at it.

‘Is he in racing?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I asked just on the off chance.’

‘It’s funny,’ he said. ‘Our industry, racing that is, it’s very insular. Everyone in it knows everyone else but we really don’t know anyone not connected, anyone from outside.’

I knew what he meant. The law could be like that too. It was one of the reasons I had chosen to continue taking my pleasure from a sport so far removed from the formality and deathly slow pace of the courts.

The small dark-haired waitress popped her head out of the door and informed us that lunch was about to be served, so would we please take our seats.

The remaining guests had arrived while I had been out on the balcony and I found myself sitting on the long side of the table between Francesca Dacey and Joanna, wife of Nicholas Osbourne, the trainer I had gone to in Lambourn all those years ago. Nicholas and I had nodded cordially to each other as we had sat down. Sadly, there had been no warmth in our greeting. Too many years of animosity, I thought, and I couldn’t even remember why.

Joanna, meanwhile, couldn’t have been friendlier and even squeezed my knee beneath the table cloth as I sat down. She had always flirted with me. I suddenly wondered if that was why Nick had become so antagonistic towards me. I looked across the table at him. He was fuming, so I winked at him and laughed. He didn’t seem at all certain how to react.

‘Nick,’ I said loudly. ‘Will you please tell your wife to stop flirting with me, I’m a married man.’

He seemed unsure how to reply.

‘But…’ he tailed off.

‘My wife might be dead,’ I said, with a smile that I didn’t feel. ‘But I’m still in love with her.’

He seemed to relax a little. ‘Joanna, my darling,’ he said. ‘Leave the poor boy alone.’ And he smiled back at me with the first genuine sign of friendship for fifteen years.

‘Silly old fool,’ Joanna said quietly to me. ‘He gets so jealous. I’d have left him years ago if I was ever going to.’

I squeezed her knee back. Nicholas would have had a fit.

‘So tell me what you’re up to,’ she said as we ate the starter of steamed asparagus with Hollandaise sauce.

‘I’m representing Steve Mitchell,’ I said.