‘I hated him because he was a sneaky little bastard,’ Steve said.

‘But just how was he sneaky?’ I asked.

‘He just was.’

‘Look, Steve,’ I said. ‘If you want me to help you, you will have to tell me everything. Now why was he sneaky?’

‘He would sneak to the stewards if anyone did anything wrong.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked. ‘Did he ever sneak on you?’

‘What, to the stewards?’

‘Yes,’ I said, imploring. ‘To the stewards.’

‘Well, no,’ he said. ‘Not on me to the stewards, but he was a bastard nevertheless.’

‘But why?’ I almost shouted at him, spreading my arms and hands open wide.

He stood up again and turned away from me. ‘Because,’ he said in a rush, ‘he told my bloody wife I was having an affair.’

Ah, I thought. That would account for the hatred. Steve went on without turning round. ‘Then she left me and took my kids away.’

Ah, again.

‘How did Barlow know you were having an affair?’ I asked.

‘I was having it with his sister,’ he said.

‘Do the police know about this?’

‘I bleeding well hope not,’ he said, turning round. ‘Now that would give me a bloody motive, wouldn’t it?’

‘When did all this happen?’ I asked him.

‘Years ago,’ he said.

‘Are you still having the affair with Barlow’s sister?’ I asked.

‘Nah, it was just a fling,’ he said. ‘Finished right there and then, but Natalie, that’s my wife, she wouldn’t come home. Went and married some bloody Australian and they now live in Sydney. With my kids. I ask you, how am I meant to see them when they’re half the world away? It’s all that bastard Barlow’s fault.’

I thought that a jury would not necessarily agree with his assessment.

‘And what about the betting slips found on the prongs of the fork?’ I said.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ Steve said.

‘But they had your name on them,’ I said.

‘Yeah, and would I be so stupid as to leave them stuck on the bloody fork if I had planted it in Barlow’s chest? Don’t be bloody daft. It’s obviously a sodding stitch-up. Surely you can see that?’

It did seem to me that the police must think Steve to be very stupid indeed if they were so certain he had done it based on that. Or perhaps they had forensic evidence that we didn’t yet know about. We would discover in due course, during pre-trial disclosure but, for the time being, we could only guess. Either way, it would be worth pursuing the matter at trial.

‘Were they, in fact, your betting slips?’ I asked him. We both knew that gambling on horses was against the terms of his riding licence.

‘They may have been,’ he said. ‘But then they wouldn’t have had my name on them. I’m not that bloody stupid.’ He laughed. ‘Least of my worries now, I suppose.’

‘Is it true that Barlow used to go through other jocks’ pockets looking for betting slips?’ I said.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I doubt it. It was probably me that started that rumour.’ He grinned at me. ‘I’d have said anything to get at him.’

In truth, it was Steve Mitchell, and not Scot Barlow, who had been the sneaky little bastard.

‘I hope it wasn’t that rumour that got him killed,’ I said.

Steve looked at me. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

On Thursday night I stayed with my trainer, Paul Newington, at Great Milton.

I had left Steve Mitchell feeling very sorry for himself at Bullingdon Prison.

‘When can you get me out of here?’ he’d asked me as we had shaken hands.

‘I really don’t know, Steve,’ I’d said. ‘It is most unlikely that you would get bail on a murder charge.’

‘But I didn’t do it,’ he had repeated yet again.

‘The police don’t see it like that,’ I’d said. ‘And I’m afraid the court will take more notice of them than of you.’

‘But you will try?’ he had implored.

I had privately thought it would be a complete waste of my time.

‘I’ll get Bruce Lygon to make another application,’ I’d told him.

‘I want you to do it,’ he had demanded.

But I knew it wasn’t always a good idea for a barrister to appear at a bail hearing. It was seen as overkill. In some eyes, it tended to make the accused look guilty. Sometimes that very fact could swing the decision against the award. And anyway, bail in murder cases was as rare as hen’s teeth.

‘I don’t really think it would make any difference,’ I’d told him.

‘So when can I expect to get out?’ he had asked in near desperation.

‘Steve,’ I’d said. ‘I think you had better prepare yourself for quite a lengthy stretch in here. The trial date will likely not be set for at least six months and it could be as long as a year away.’

‘A year!’ he’d exclaimed, going white. ‘Oh my God. I’ll go mad.’

‘I’ll see what I can do to get you out sooner, but I don’t want to build your hopes up too much.’

I had looked at him standing there with drooping shoulders, appearing much shorter than his five foot six. He may have been an arrogant ego maniac who annoyed most of those he encountered, but there was no doubt that he was one of the best in hischosen tough and physically demanding profession. He was basically a harmless victim and I was sure he was no murderer. And he didn’t deserve to have been thrust into this nightmare.

I had thought he was going to cry. Perhaps for the first time he had appreciated the real fix he was in and he was far from pleased about it.

I hadn’t liked leaving Steve in that state. Over the years I’d left clients in prison on remand in states of emotion that varied from utter rage to complete collapse. It was never easy, but this was the first time I’d felt real anger in tandem with my client. Hold on a minute, I thought suddenly, he’s not my client and, what’s more, he couldn’t be.

∗

It was always an escape from my usual work to go to Paul Newington’s place. He was so different from the people I dealt with on a day-to-day basis. For a start, I don’t think I had ever seen him in a tie, and almost never in a jacket. When he was at home he habitually wore blue denim jeans with scuffed knees and frayed legs, and, on this occasion, he sported a black sweatshirt with ‘Motorhead’ emblazoned across its chest in lightning-strike letters. Perhaps it would not have been my choice of garb when entertaining one of his owners.

But I think that was why I liked him so much. He used to say that the horses didn’t care if he was in his dressing gown so why should their owners. I tactfully didn’t point out to him that it wasn’t the horses that were paying him for their board and lodging. It was one of the reasons why he had never quite broken into the big time. Rich owners want to be appreciated and, in their eyes, afforded due reverence by their trainers. And rich owners buy the best horses.

Paul’s richest owners had continually been wooed away by other trainers more willing to bow and scrape to their whims. I had resisted two such approaches myself because I liked the relaxed atmosphere of his stable. It was in such contrast to the old-fashioned formality I was all too familiar with in the courts.

Paul and I walked round the stables as his staff were busy mucking out and giving their charges food and water for the night. Sandeman looked wonderful in his box with his shining golden tan coat and showing no apparent ill effects from his race at Sandown the previous Saturday.

I walked over and slapped his neck.

‘Good boy,’ I said to him calmly. ‘Who’s a good boy?’

He blew through his nostrils and shifted his bulk, turning his head to see if I had a titbit for him. I never came to Paul’s without some apples in my pocket and today was no exception. Sandeman gratefully munched his way noisily through a Granny Smith, dripping saliva and apple bits into his bedding. It was a satisfactory encounter for us both and I took my leave of him with a slap on his neck which caused him to lift and lower his head as if he were agreeing with me.