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DC Hillier proved to be a model witness for the Crown, stating clearly and persuasively to the jury how the murder weapon was found to be identical to two other pitchforks found at Mitchell’s property and how further investigations had discovered a receipt from a Newbury supplier showing that Mitchell had purchased three of the forks the previous year.

He went on to describe how he had ascertained that the debit card receipts, found impaled on the prongs of the fork between Mr Barlow’s body and the fork handle, were from a Maestro debit card issued by Lloyds Bank in the name of Mr Stephen Mitchell. Furthermore, the said debit card receipts were from payments made by Mr Mitchell to a licensed bookmaker based in Hungerford.

‘Detective Constable Hillier,’ I said, starting my cross-examination. ‘Do you not think it is strange that a murderer would leave incriminating debit card receipts with his name on them at the scene of the crime?’

‘No, not particularly,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Many criminals do strange things.’

‘But did you not suspect that the receipts had been left on the fork by someone who simply wanted the police to believe that Mr Mitchell had been responsible for the crime?’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Mitchell put them on the fork to goad Barlow and he hadn’t really intended leaving them behind. Maybe he just panicked, or perhaps he couldn’t get the murder weapon out of the body to remove them, or indeed to take the fork back home with him.’

‘This is conjecture,’ interrupted the judge. ‘The witness will confine himself to the facts he knows, rather than those he can merely speculate about.’

‘Sorry, Your Honour,’ said DC Hillier. But the damage had already been done.

I thought of further pointing out that the murderer could surely have ripped the receipts away from the fork without removing it from Barlow’s body if, of course, he’d actually wanted to, but this whole line of questioning clearly wasn’t helping our case so I let it go.

The next witness was the Hungerford bookmaker who confirmed that the receipts had been issued by the card machine at his premises.

‘And are you aware,’ the prosecuting counsel said to him, ‘that betting on horse racing by a professional jockey is against the Rules of Racing?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am aware of that.’

‘But you took the bets anyway?’ the QC asked.

‘Yes,’ said the bookmaker. ‘It was not against either the terms of my permit or the licence of my premises.’

‘Was it a regular arrangement with Mr Mitchell?’

‘Fairly regular,’ the bookmaker replied.

I started to rise but the judge beat me to it.

‘Is the regularity of any significance?’ he asked the prosecutor.

‘Perhaps not, My Lord,’ said the QC.

The bookmaker was dismissed. I could have asked him if he regularly took bets from other jockeys but that also wouldn’t have been significant, and would probably have antagonized him and the jury unnecessarily, so I didn’t. I had no reason to think that he had taken bets from Scot Barlow, so I didn’t ask him that either. As for how Steve Mitchell’s debit card receipts had found their way onto the pitchfork was anyone’s guess. Steve still, unbelievably, refused to comment on the matter, but he wasn’t here being tried for gambling in contravention of the Rules of Racing, he was being tried for murder.

‘You have one new message,’ said my voicemail when I turned my phone on at lunchtime. It was from Nikki Payne.

‘Mr Mason,’ her disembodied voice said in some excitement. ‘I’ve found your Jacques van Rensburg, or at least I’ve found out who he is. Call me back when you get this message.’

I called her immediately.

‘He was the third one,’ she said in a rush. ‘They sent his passport photo over from South Africa and there was no mistake.’

‘So he’s still somewhere here with an expired visa?’ I asked.

‘Well, no,’ she said. ‘Not exactly.’ She then went on to give me some very interesting information about Mr Jacques van Rensburg, information that explained why the photograph of Millie and the foal had been important. So important that someone had taken it from Scot Barlow’s house. Maybe so important, indeed, that Barlow had been murdered to get it.

CHAPTER 17

The afternoon sitting of the court was taken up almost exclusively by witnesses called by the prosecution to testify about the well-known antagonism, even hatred, that had existed between the defendant and the victim for some time.

Any hopes that we, the defence, had of keeping quiet about Barlow’s sister Millie were dispelled by the very first on the list, Charles Pickering, a racehorse trainer from Lambourn.

‘Mr Pickering,’ said the prosecution QC, ‘how well did you know Mr Barlow?’

‘Very well indeed,’ he replied. ‘I knew him like my own son. Scot had ridden for me as number one jockey ever since he came down south from Scotland eight years ago. Helived as a member of my family for a while when he first started out.’

‘And how well do you know the defendant, Mr Mitchell?’

‘Reasonably well,’ he said. ‘He’s ridden my horses a few times, when Scot was unavailable or injured. And I know him by reputation. He’s a top steeplechase jockey.’

‘Yes, Mr Pickering,’ said the QC. ‘But please tell us only what you know personally rather than what you assume from a reputation.’

Charles Pickering nodded.

‘Now, Mr Pickering,’ the QC went on. ‘Did you ever hear Mr Mitchell and Mr Barlow arguing?’

‘All the time,’ he said. ‘Like cat and dog, they were.’

‘So there was no love lost between them?’

‘I should say not,’ replied Pickering with a smile.

‘Do you know what they argued about?’

‘Scot’s sister, mostly,’ said Charles Pickering, firing another shot into the defence case.

‘Scot Barlow’s sister?’ the QC said for effect, turning towards the jury.

‘Yes,’ Pickering said. ‘Scot accused Mitchell of as good as killing his sister. Mitchell used to tell him to shut up or he’d kill him too.’

‘Were those his exact words?’

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘It was the same argument every time. Scot’s sister had killed herself about a year ago and he believed that Mitchell’s treatment of her had driven her to it.’

‘Were Barlow and Mitchell on reasonable terms before Barlow’s sister killed herself?’ the QC asked, while knowing quite well what the answer would be.

‘Oh, no,’ said Pickering. ‘They’ve hated each other for years. Scot didn’t like Mitchell seeing his sister at all, right from the start.’

‘And when was the start?’ the QC asked.

‘About three or four years ago, when Barlow’s sister came down from Scotland to live in Lambourn.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pickering,’ said the QC. ‘Your witness.’ He smiled at me.

‘No questions, My Lord,’ I said. And Charles Pickering was allowed to depart.

There was nothing I could ask him which would undo the damage he had already done to our case, and I didn’t want to inadvertently lead him to reveal more damning details such as Barlow’s disclosure of the affair to Mitchell’s wife. Now that really would have provided a motive for murder.

However, my hopes of keeping that a secret only lasted as long as it took for the next witness to be sworn in.

‘Mr Clemens,’ said the QC. ‘I believe you are a steeplechase jockey, is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s correct,’ said Reno Clemens in his Irish accent.

‘Are you a successful jockey?’ the QC asked.

‘I am, sir,’ Reno said. ‘I am leading the jockeys’ table at the moment.’

‘So that means you have ridden more winners than anyone else so far this year?’