‘Stop it,’ I said to her under my breath while trying hard not to join in. ‘For goodness’ sake, stop it.’ But she didn’t, or she couldn’t.
∗
My taxi arrived at ten fifteen sharp, as I had ordered, and it whisked me off to Oxford, leaving Eleanor waving to me from the pub car park. The evening had flown by and I wasn’t at all ready to go when the driver arrived. But he couldn’t wait. He had other trips booked after mine.
‘Now or never,’ he’d said.
I was tempted to say never, but I would just have to wait until Monday, or Tuesday.
Eleanor and I kissed each other goodnight firmly, with open mouths. It was a revelation to me after such a long time. Something stirred inside me and I so reluctantly struggled into the back seat of the taxi to be borne away from her to the City of Dreaming Spires. I, meanwhile, was dreaming of the future, and especially of Monday, or Tuesday.
CHAPTER 15
I spent an hour early on Saturday connected to the internet, dealing with my e-mails, paying bills and generally managing my bank account. I also looked up when England had last played cricket on tour in South Africa. The rest of the morning was spent going through, yet again, the boxes of papers for the case. By now I knew many of them off by heart but one or two of them were new since I had last been through them.
At last, after several more threatening requests, the bank had finally produced Millie Barlow’s bank statements and I spent quite a while examining these. They did indeed show that Millie had a regular payment into her account over and above her salary from the equine hospital veterinary practice. And Scot’s statements showed that the money didn’t come from him, or at least it didn’t come from his bank account.
The amounts weren’t that big, just a few hundred every month, and, from the statements that had been sent by the bank, I was able to tell they had been paid to her for at least a year and a half before she died. But I didn’t have any information for before that.
I thought back to when I had met her parents at Scot Barlow’s house. Were they likely to have been sending their daughter money? One never knew. Their ill-fitting clothes, their cheap coach travel and their simple ways didn’t necessarily mean they had no spare cash. It might just mean they were careful with their money, and there was no crime in that.
Scot, meanwhile, had been doing very well indeed, thank you very much. Almost all his deposits were from Weatherbys, the racing administrators, who paid all the riding fees and win bonuses to owners, trainers and jockeys. There had been a few other minor deposits but nothing that amounted to much. Scot had been at the top of his profession and earning accordingly, but the statements indicated that there was nothing unusual in any of his transactions, at least nothing that I had been able to spot.
I met with Bruce Lygon on Saturday afternoon and we fairly gloomily went through the prosecution case once again. At first glance the evidence seemed overwhelming but, the more I looked at it, the more I began to believe that we had a chance to argue that Mitchell had no case to answer. Everything was circumstantial. There was no proof anywhere in their case that our client had ever been to Honeysuckle Cottage, let alone killed its owner.
‘But the evidence does show,’ Bruce said, ‘that whoever killed Barlow used Mitchell’s pitchfork as the murder weapon, was wearing Mitchell’s boots as he did it, probably drove Mitchell’s car from the scene, and,’ he emphasized, ‘also had access to Mitchell’s debit card slips.’
‘But that doesn’t mean it was definitely Mitchell who did it,’ I said.
‘What would you think if you were on the jury?’ he said. ‘Especially when you add in the fact that Mitchell hated Barlow. Everyone knew it, and Mitchell had often been heard to threaten to kill Barlow in exactly the manner in which he died.’
‘That’s why we have to argue that there’s no case to answer,’ I said. ‘If it goes to the jury we are in deep trouble.’
On Sunday, I went by train to have lunch with my father in his bungalow in the village of Kings Sutton. He came down to the village station to collect me in his old Morris Minor. He had always loved this old car and there was nothing he adored more than tinkering for hours with the old engine beneath the bulbous bonnet.
‘She’s still going well, then?’ I said to him as the car made easy work of the hill up from the station.
‘Never better,’ he said. ‘The odometer has just been round the clock again.’
I leaned over and saw that it read just twenty-two miles.
‘How many times is that?’ I asked.
‘Can’t remember,’ he said. ‘Three or four at least.’
This car had been the greatest delight of his life and he had been married to it for far longer, and much more passionately, than he had been to my mother.
It had been the first car I had ever driven. I am sure that the Health and Safety Executive would not have approved of the practice, but I could remember the joy of sitting on my father’s lap and steering at an age when my feet wouldn’t reach the pedals. Thinking back, it was a surprise that I hadn’t wanted to become a racing driver rather than a jockey.
My father’s stone-built bungalow sat in a cul-de-sac at the edge of the village with six other similar bungalows, all of them subtly different in design or orientation. He had four bedrooms in a house that looked smaller, but he had converted the smallest bedroom into an office with bookshelves full of law books and Morris Minor manuals.
Just as he had been an infrequent visitor to Barnes since Angela died, I had only been here to Kings Sutton to see him about half a dozen times in the previous three years. My father and I had never been really affectionate towards each other, even when I had been a small child. I suppose we loved each other in the way that parents and children must, and I think I would probably miss him after his days, that is if Julian Trent didn’t see me off first. But closeness and a cosy loving relationship between us was something that neither of us had wanted for a very long time, if ever.
However, that Sunday, I had a lovely time with him, sitting at his dining-room table eating a roast beef lunch with Yorkshire puddings and four different vegetables that he had cooked for us.
‘I’m very impressed,’ I said, laying down my knife and fork. ‘I never realized you could cook so well.’
‘You should come more often,’ he said in response, smiling.
Over lunch we hadn’t discussed the Mitchell case, or any other case. I think, in the end, he had been pleased that I had become a barrister, but there had been so many things said between us in those early years, things we probably both would now regret having said, that the whole question of my job and career had never been mentioned again.
‘Would you do me a favour?’ I asked him as we moved with our coffees into his sitting room.
‘Depends what it is,’ he said.
‘Would you contemplate going away for a couple of weeks?’ I said.
‘What on earth for?’ he said.
How could I explain to him that it might be for his own protection? How could I say that it was so he couldn’t be used as a lever to make me do something I didn’t want to?
‘I’d like to give you a holiday,’ I said.
‘But why?’ he said. ‘And where would I go?’
‘Wherever you like,’ I said.
‘But I don’t want to go anywhere,’ he said. ‘If you really want to give me something then give me the money to have my windows and guttering painted.’
‘It might be safer for you to go away,’ I said.
‘Safer?’ he said. ‘How would it be safer?’
I explained to him just a little about how some people were trying to influence the outcome of a trial by getting me to do things I didn’t want to do.