Dick Francis - Silks

‘Yes, indeed he was,’ said Radcliffe. ‘He was both the Champion two-year-old and he was named Horse of the Year in 2007. But that was nothing compared with last year.’ Radcliffe was enjoying himself now and was totally relaxed. ‘He won the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket in May, the Derby at Epsom in June and the Breeders’ Cup Classic in California last October. It was quite a year.’ He smiled at the jury and many of them smiled back at him.

Nikki came into the courtroom and sat down next to Eleanor.

‘All set,’ she said quietly to my back.

I turned around and leaned down to her.

‘Good,’ I said quietly. ‘Keep watch from the door, I’ll give you the signal. Go back out now.’

She stood up, bowed slightly to the bench, and departed.

‘Mr Mason,’ said the judge. ‘I am sure the jury and I have enjoyed our little lesson in Thoroughbred racing, but could you please show us the relevance of your questions, or else I shall release Mr Radcliffe back to his busy business schedule.’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said rather sheepishly.

Roger Radcliffe continued to stand ramrod stiff in the witness box. He was enjoying my discomfort. Now, I thought, it was time to rub that smirk off his face.

‘Mr Radcliffe,’ I said to him. ‘We have heard already that you hardly knew the victim of this murder, but how well do you know the defendant, Mr Mitchell?’

‘About the same as Barlow,’ he said. ‘Mitchell has been champion jockey over the jumps. I personally don’t have jump horses but I know him by reputation. We may have met a few times at events. I really can’t remember.’

‘And how about Miss Millie Barlow, Scot Barlow’s sister. Did you know her?’

I noticed a very slight tightening of the skin around his eyes. He was getting a little worried.

‘I don’t believe I did,’ he said calmly.

It was his first lie.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked him.

‘Quite sure,’ he said.

‘She was an equine veterinary surgeon,’ I said. ‘Sadly, she died last June. Does that jog your memory?’

‘I know that a vet died during a party last year,’ he said. ‘Was that her?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was. An inquest jury in January concluded that she had taken her own life by injecting herself with a substantial dose of the barbiturate anaesthetic thiopental.’

‘Very sad,’ he said, rather condescendingly. ‘But I can’t see the relevance.’

‘Mr Radcliffe,’ I said, ignoring his comment. ‘Were you having an affair with Millie Barlow?’

‘No I was not,’ he almost shouted. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing?’

He glanced across at his wife, Deborah. She had come into the court with him when he had been called, and she was now sitting in the public seats behind Mr and Mrs Barlow. I turned to look at her but I couldn’t see the expression on her face.

‘Mr Radcliffe, did you attend the party where Millie Barlow died?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

‘And can you recall if there was a reason for the party?’

‘Yes, there was,’ he said. ‘It was a party given jointly by me and Simon Dacey, at Simon’s house, to celebrate Peninsula winning the Derby.’

‘Simon Dacey being the trainer of the horse?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ Radcliffe replied.

‘Can you recall why Millie Barlow was also a guest at this party?’ I asked him.

‘Mr Mason,’ said the judge. ‘Are these questions really relevant to the case before this court?’

‘My Lord,’ I said. ‘The prosecution has previously made it clear that the relationship that existed between the defendant and Miss Barlow was a major cause of the antagonism between the defendant and the victim, and hence, they claim, it ultimately provided the motive for murder. It is my intention to explore this relationship further by reference to Miss Barlow’s untimely death last June.’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You may continue.’

‘Thank you, My Lord.’ I turned back to the witness box. ‘Now, Mr Radcliffe,’ I said. ‘I was asking you if you knew why Millie Barlow was invited to the party.’

‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘I told you I didn’t know her.’

‘Then why,’ I said, picking up a piece of paper from the table, ‘did you purchase a brand-new sports car and give it to her as a gift?’

He was initially flustered, but he recovered fast. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘I’m talking about a bright red Mazda MX-5 Roadster purchased in September 2007 from the Mazda dealership in Newbury,’ I referred to the piece of paper in front of me that Nikki had obtained from the dealership the previous Friday, ‘at a cost of fifteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds.’

He stood silently in the witness box staring at me.

‘Come now, Mr Radcliffe,’ I said. ‘Are you telling the court that you did not know the person to whom you gave a brand-new car worth more than fifteen thousand pounds?’

‘I still have no idea what you are talking about,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been to any Mazda dealer.’

‘Mr Radcliffe,’ I said. ‘Last Friday my solicitor’s clerk visited the dealership and they told her they remembered this car being bought. They remembered because it was paid for, in full, with a banker’s draft, which is most unusual. The draft did not have the name of the purchaser on it. However, the sales representative remembered the purchaser, and he was able to positively identify you from this photograph.’

I held up the large glossy brochure that I had taken from the foaling centre on my first visit there, the brochure with the photograph on the front of a smiling Roger and Deborah Radcliffe standing in a paddock with some mares and foals. The same brochure I had showed first to Patrick Hamilton in his office, and then to Josef Hughes and George Barnett at Runnymede the previous Friday.

‘I can call the Mazda sales representative as a witness if you want me to.’ I paused. He said nothing. ‘Now, Mr Radcliffe, please can you tell the jury why you gave a brand-new car worth over fifteen thousand pounds to Miss Millie Barlow in September 2007?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ said Radcliffe defiantly.

‘Mr Radcliffe,’ the judge intervened. ‘You will answer the question, unless, that is, you wish to claim that, in doing so, you might incriminate yourself. And if that is the case, then, one can assume, the question may be of interest to the police.’

Radcliffe stood silent for a moment and then he smiled. ‘It was a gift to her for doing a fine job when Peninsula was foaled. She was the attending vet. I didn’t want to say so, or to give my name when I purchased the car as I didn’t want there to be a tax implication for her. I didn’t want the Inland Revenue to consider it as a payment for services and require her to pay income tax on its value, or require me to pay the National Insurance contributions.’

He stood relaxed in the witness box smiling at the jury. ‘I am sorry I tried to avoid a little tax,’ he said with a laugh. ‘We all try it occasionally, don’t we? I will pay the back tax right away.’

He had done well, I thought. Quick thinking, in the circumstances.

‘Was it not payment to her because she was blackmailing you?’ I asked him.

The smile disappeared from his face. ‘Blackmail?’ he said.

‘Yes, Mr Radcliffe, blackmail.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ he said with an air of confidence.

I turned and waved at Nikki, who was watching me through the glass panel in the courtroom door.

She entered the court followed by two other people.

All three of them bowed slightly to the bench and then came and sat behind Eleanor and Bruce.

I watched the colour drain out of Roger Radcliffe’s face as he stared at the newcomers. He gripped the sides of the witness box as if to prevent himself falling over.