Silks (13 page)

All my training told me to go and make the incident known to the police, or at least to the prosecution. All my instincts as a barrister were to walk away from this case and never look back for fear of being turned to a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife. Maybe I should just let justice take its course and have nothing to do with it.

But what was justice? I had been emphatically told by someone to take the case and then to lose it. Was that justice? If I walked away would someone else be frightened into ensuring that Steve Mitchell was convicted? Did the very fact that someone was so keen to see him sent down for the murder prove that he didn’t do it? Then where would justice be if I walked away? But even if I could successfully defend him, where would that then leave me? ‘Next time, I’ll smash your head,’ Trent had said. ‘Next time, I’ll cut your balls right off.’ If I walked away and Mitchell was convicted with someone else in the defence chair, would Trent and whoever was behind him still come after me? And that prospect brought a cold sweat to my brow and a tremor to my fingers.

‘Angela, my darling,’ I said quietly into the empty waiting room. ‘Tell me what to do?’

She didn’t reply. Once again, I longed for her presence and her wisdom. She had always instinctively known what was right. We had discussed everything, sometimes to the point of exhaustion. She had trained as a psychologist and even the most mundane of family conversations between us could turn readily into a deeper analysis of meaning. I remember one year casually asking her whether we would be going to my father’s house or staying with her parents for Christmas. Several hours later we had delved into the inner feelings we each had for our parents, and more particularly our feelings for our parents-in-law. In the end we had remained at home for the festivities, and we had laughed about it. How I now missed laughing with her.

Without warning my eyes began to fill with tears. I couldn’t help it.

The lady vet in the green scrubs chose this moment to reappear. I quickly wiped my eyes on my sleeve and hoped she hadn’t noticed.

‘Now how can I help you?’ she asked wearily.

‘Busy day?’ It was more of a statement than a question.

‘You bet,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I think we saved Mr Radcliffe his money.’

‘Bad?’ I said.

‘Not life threatening,’ she said. ‘But it could have stopped him racing if we hadn’t been careful. We had to rejoin some tendons and sew back some muscle tissue. He’s young. He should heal as good as new. Stupid horse gashed its shoulder on a car wing mirror after breaking free.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Simon Dacey told me.’

She raised her eyebrows in slight surprise.

‘And who are you exactly?’ she asked.

‘Geoffrey Mason,’ I said, pulling out another card from my pocket and handing it over.

‘Not selling, are you?’ she asked, glancing briefly at the card.

‘No,’ I laughed. ‘I’m after some information.’

‘Why?’ she said. ‘What information?’

‘I’m a barrister and I’m representing Steve Mitchell.’ There I go again, I thought.

‘Arrogant little shit,’ she said, somewhat surprisingly.

‘Is he?’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘Thinks he’s God’s gift to women,’ she said. ‘Expects every female round here to drop their knickers on demand.’

‘And do they?’ I asked.

She looked at me and smiled. ‘Remind me never to be in the witness box when you’re asking the questions.’

‘I’ll try.’ I smiled back. ‘But at least tell me your name so I can be sure.’

‘Eleanor Clarke,’ she said, reaching out a hand, which I shook. ‘I thought you said you wanted to ask about Millie Barlow.’

‘I do,’ I said. ‘Did you know her?’

‘Certainly did,’ said Eleanor. ‘She lived in the house here with three others of us.’

‘House?’ I asked.

‘Yes, there’s a house out the back where some of the staff who work here live. I live there and Millie lived there until…,’ she tailed off and looked down.

‘Until she killed herself?’ I asked, finishing her sentence.

‘Yes,’ she said, looking back at my face. ‘That’s right, until she killed herself. But she didn’t sleep there every night.’

‘Because she was with Steve Mitchell?’ I said it as a question.

‘Yes,’ she replied rather hesitantly.

‘Was she sleeping with anyone else?’ I asked.

‘God, you’re sharp,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid our Millie would sleep with anyone who asked nicely.’

‘Any man, you mean,’ I said.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Millie wasn’t really that choosy. But she was a sweet girl. We all missed her after…’

‘Why do you think she did it?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Lots of people said afterwards that she had been depressed but I didn’t think so. She was always so happy. She always had a plan to get rich quick.’

‘Was she selling sex?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said with some emphasis. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, perhaps I exaggerated a bit. She didn’t sleep with everyone. She had her favourites. And she would say no occasionally, especially to some of the married ones. She wasn’t all bad.’

‘But she was living with Steve Mitchell?’ I asked.

‘Not really,’ Eleanor said. ‘She lived in the house here but she did spend nights away with Mitchell, yes. Him more than any other, I’d say. But they were hardly living together.’ I wondered if Mrs Barlow would be pleased or not. I wondered how strict Millie’s upbringing had been. Maybe as soon as she was free of her father’s control she went a little mad, sampling life’s pleasures in excess.

‘How did she get the anaesthetic?’ I asked.

‘Well, we have it here, of course, but it’s funny.’ She paused.

‘What’s funny?’ I encouraged.

‘The toxicology report on Millie indicated that she had injected herself with thiopental.’

I looked at her quizzically. ‘Why is that funny?’ I asked.

‘We don’t use thiopental in the hospital. We use ketamine, usually mixed with either xylazine or detomidine.’ I raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘They’re sedatives,’ she explained, leaving me none the wiser. ‘Both types will cause unconsciousness, but thiopental is a barbiturate anaesthetic and ketamine is a hydrochloride salt.’

‘Isn’t it a bit odd that she used a different drug than you use at the hospital?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘a vet can get medicines from any drug supplier just by filling in a form. And anaesthetics are used by vets all the time.’

‘But it does mean she didn’t kill herself on the spur of the moment,’ I said. ‘Not if she had to order the stuff especially rather than just take some from here.’

‘She may have already had it,’ Eleanor said. ‘I have a few things in my bag that didn’t come from the hospital drug store. And barbiturate anaesthetics are used a lot. Thiopental is what’s used every day in most vets’ practices to put dogs and cats to sleep.’

‘Where does the hospital get its drugs?’ I asked her.

‘We have a specialist veterinary pharmacist in Reading,’ she said. ‘We have a delivery almost every day during the week.’

‘She must have ordered it separately from them,’ I said.

‘No,’ she replied quickly. ‘They had to check their records for the police and there was nothing.’

‘How odd,’ I said.

‘Even if she had wanted to, she would have had trouble using any of the hospital stuff anyway,’ said Eleanor. ‘We have a very tight system of control. Anything like anaesthetic has to be signed out of the hospital drug store by two vets. Look, I’ve got
to go. We aren’t normally open after six and there’s someone waiting to lock up.’

‘How about the horse you operated on?’ I said.

‘He’s in the stables at the back now for the night. He has a monitor on him and CCTV to the duty vet’s room. Otherwise we’re closed, except, of course, for emergencies.’

‘But I would really like to ask you some more questions about Millie,’ I said imploringly.

‘Let me get changed first,’ she said. ‘I fancy a drink. Are you buying?’

‘How about supper?’ I said.

‘Don’t push your luck, Mr…’ She looked again at my card. ‘Geoffrey Mason.’

‘No. Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Just when I thought I was being asked out on a date, he says he didn’t mean it.’ She laughed. ‘Story of my life.’

We went in separate cars to the Queen’s Arms in East Garston, a village a few miles away.

‘Let’s not go to a pub in Lambourn,’ Eleanor had said. ‘Too many listening ears and wagging tongues.’

I was there well ahead of her. I ordered myself a diet Coke and perched on a bar stool, thinking about what questions I needed to ask and wondering why I thought that Millie Barlow’s death could have anything to do with that of her brother.

I just didn’t like coincidences, although they could never be used as evidence on their own. After all, coincidences do happen. Like all the ones involving the assassinated presidents Abraham
Lincoln and John F. Kennedy. Lincoln had a secretary called Kennedy, and Kennedy had a secretary called Lincoln, and both were succeeded by a Vice-President Johnson. But I still didn’t like them.

I did not immediately recognize Eleanor Clarke when she walked into the dimly lit bar. She had changed out of her functional green scrubs and rubber boots and was now wearing a white rib-pattern roll-neck sweater over blue jeans. However, the main reason I didn’t know her at first was because her blonde hair was no longer tied in a ponytail but hung down close to each side of her face. My first instinct was that the change of hairstyle was a mistake as it hid her beautiful arched cheekbones and somewhat reduced the sparkle from her stunning blue eyes.

I was suddenly quite shocked by these thoughts. I had hardly given a woman’s face a second glance since the day I had first met and fallen instantly in love with Angela, and I had certainly not thought of beautiful cheekbones or stunning blue eyes on anyone else.

‘There you are,’ said Eleanor, coming over and sitting on the bar stool next to mine.

‘What are you drinking?’ I asked her.

‘G and T, please.’

I ordered and we sat in silence as the barman poured the tonic over the gin.

‘Lovely,’ she said, taking a large gulp. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘I’d better order you another,’ I said.

‘I’m driving,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have the one.’

‘You could stay for dinner,’ I said.

‘I thought you didn’t really mean it.’ She looked at me with the sparkly blue eyes. They smiled at me.

‘I meant that,’ I said. ‘I just didn’t mean…’ I was getting lost for words. ‘You know, anything else.’

‘Like what?’ she said all seriously, but now with laughter in her eyes.

‘Were you a barrister in a past life?’ I said. ‘I feel that I’m being questioned in court.’

‘Answer the question,’ she demanded with a stare.

‘I just didn’t want you to think I was propositioning you or anything.’

‘And were you?’ she asked.

‘No, of course not,’ I said.

‘Oh thanks. Am I that unattractive?’

‘No. I didn’t mean that.’

‘We seem to be going round in circles here, Mister Barrister Man,’ she said. ‘So what did you mean?’

‘I thought it was going to be me asking you the questions,’ I said. ‘Not the other way round.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’m ready. Ask away.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Firstly, will you stay to dinner?’

‘Yes,’ she replied without hesitation.

‘Good,’ I said.

‘Are you married?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Why?’

‘I just wondered,’ she said.

I didn’t immediately respond.

‘Well, are you?’ she persisted.

‘Why do you want to know?’ I asked again.

‘Need to know where I stand,’ she said.

‘But I’m not propositioning you, so why does it matter?’ I said.

‘You might change your mind,’ she said. ‘And I can’t be
bothered to invest any emotion unless I know where I stand. So, are you married?’

‘Are you?’ I asked her back.

‘Only to my job,’ she said. She waited a moment in silence. ‘Well?’

‘I was,’ I said slowly.

‘Divorced?’ she said.

‘Widowed.’

‘Oh.’ She was embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ I said. But it felt like only yesterday.

She sat silently as if waiting for me to go on. I didn’t.

‘Still painful?’ she asked.

I nodded.

‘Sorry,’ she said again. Some of the sparkle had gone out of her eyes.

We sat in silence for a while.

‘What do you want to know about Millie?’ she asked eventually.

‘Let’s go and eat,’ I said.

We opted for a table in the bar rather than in the restaurant. No tablecloth, less formal, but the same menu.

I chose a fillet steak while Eleanor decided on the pan-fried sea bream.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ I asked her.

‘I’m still driving,’ she said.

‘You could leave your car here,’ I said. ‘I’m sure the pub won’t mind if you leave it in their car park. I could drop you back at the hospital and you could collect it in the morning.’

‘How about you?’ she said. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘I’m on diet Coke but I’ll have a small glass of red with my
dinner,’ I said. ‘I do have to drive. Back to London tonight.’ I had rented the car for only two days.

‘Couldn’t you stay down here and go in the morning?’ she said.

‘Are you propositioning me now?’ I asked.

She blushed. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

Pity, I thought, again surprising myself.

I could always have called Hertz to keep the car for another day, but somehow I felt that I was betraying my Angela even to contemplate spending the night away from home, especially in order to have a lengthy dinner with another woman. I told myself not to be such a fool, but I felt it nevertheless.

‘How well did you know Millie?’ I asked, changing the subject and saving us both some embarrassment.

‘Pretty well,’ she said. ‘We worked together at the hospital for three years and lived in the house together for most of that time.’

‘Do you know why she killed herself?’ I asked.

‘No idea,’ she said. ‘She seemed pretty happy to me.’