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.
Both Josef Hughes and George Barnett sat quite still and stared back at him.
‘Mr Radcliffe,’ I said calmly. ‘Do you know someone called Julian Trent?’
Roger Radcliffe was more than flustered this time. He was in a panic. I could tell from the way the skin had tightened over his face and there was a slight tic in the corner of his left eye. He stood quite still in the witness box. But I was sure that, behind those steely eyes, his brain was moving fast.
‘Julian Trent is your godson, isn’t he?’ I asked him.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Radcliffe,’ I said. ‘Would you please speak up. The jury can’t hear you if you whisper.’
The irony of the comment was not lost on him. He positively glared at me.
I noticed that the press box had filled considerably since the start of the day. Word had clearly been passed outside that something was afoot and more reporters had been dispatched to the court. The public seats had also noticeably filled, and two court security officers now stood either side of the door. Detective Inspector McNeile, his evidence completed, was sat in a row of seats positioned in front of the press box, and he too was taking a keen interest in the proceedings.
I poured myself more water from the carafe on my table, and then slowly drank some of it.
‘Now, Mr Radcliffe,’ I said finally. ‘Can we return to the question of blackmail?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, but the confidence had gone out of his performance.
‘We have heard that you bought a new car and then gave it to Millie Barlow,’ I said. ‘Is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘Speak up,’ said the judge.
‘Yes,’ Radcliffe repeated louder.
‘I repeat my question,’ I said. ‘Was that car given by you to Millie Barlow as a payment for blackmail?’
‘No. That’s utter rubbish,’ he said.
I collected some more papers together in my hands.
‘These are bank statements,’ I said. ‘Millie Barlow’s bank statements. They show that she received regular payments into her account over and above her salary from the equine hospital. Can you explain these payments?’
‘Of course not,’ Radcliffe said.
‘Were these also blackmail payments, Mr Radcliffe, and did they come from your bank account?’
‘No,’ he said. But he didn’t convince me, and some of the jury looked sceptical as well.
‘Mr Radcliffe,’ I said, changing direction. ‘Do you ever have need for anaesthetics at your equine maternity unit?’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Why should we?’
‘Perhaps for a Caesarean birth if a foal cannot be born naturally?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said, suddenly back on surer ground. ‘The mare would be transferred to one of the local equine hospitals and anaesthetized there.’