Silks (26 page)

I called Arthur on my mobile and asked him to arrange for all my boxes, papers, files, gown, wig, and so on for the Mitchell trial, to be sent direct to my hotel in Oxford, where I would be spending the weekend in preparation for Monday. No problem, he said. Sending boxes of papers by courier all over the country for court hearings was normal practice.

Bob was waiting for me in the Mercedes outside the GMC offices.

‘Back to Barnes?’ he asked.

‘No, Bob,’ I said. ‘Could you take me to Lambourn?’

‘Be delighted to,’ he said with a big smile. Bob was being paid by the mile. ‘Round trip or one way?’ he asked.

‘One way for tonight, I think,’ I said. ‘I need to make a call or two. And, Bob, can we find a photo shop that’s still open, one where you can stop outside to drop me off?’

He found one in Victoria Street and I spent about half an hour at a self-service digital photo machine printing out the pictures I had taken that morning with Eleanor’s camera. I also printed out ten six-by-four-inch copies of the blown-up image of the Millie and foal picture. They weren’t perfect, and looked
a little more blurred than on the camera, but they would have to do.

Eleanor was delighted when I called her to say I was still coming to Lambourn, but she seemed a little hesitant when I told her that I had nowhere yet to stay.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I suppose…’

‘I’ll find a pub or a hotel,’ I said, interrupting her.

‘Oh, right,’ she said, sounding relieved. ‘It’s just we have the house rule…’ she tailed off.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t expected to stay with you anyway.’

From the house-rule point of view, I was clearly still seen as a casual rather than a long-term relationship. And I suppose that was fair, I thought. Eleanor and I had hardly kissed, so staying the night with her would have been a huge step.

I phoned ahead to the Queen’s Arms Hotel in East Garston, the pub where Eleanor and I had met for our first drink and meal back in the previous November.

‘Yes,’ they said. ‘We have rooms available for tonight. For how many people?’

‘For one,’ I said. ‘But I would like a double-bedded room please.’ Well, you never knew.

Bob took me straight to the hotel, where the receptionist was surprised that I had no luggage, not even a wash bag. It was too complicated to explain, so I didn’t. She kindly allocated me a room on the ground floor in a modern extension alongside the eighteenth-century inn, and I went and lay down on the bed to rest my aching back and to wait for Eleanor to arrive to look after me.

∗

We had dinner at the same table as before but, on this occasion, our evening was interrupted by an emergency call on her pager.

‘I just don’t believe it,’ said Eleanor, disconnecting from her mobile phone. ‘No one who’s been on call this week has been needed and now this.’ She took another mouthful of her fish. ‘I’ll try and come back.’ She stood up.

‘Do you want me to save your dinner?’ I said.

‘No, I’ll be longer than that,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’

She rushed off to her car and left me sitting alone. I was disappointed. And, for the first time, I realized that I didn’t feel guilty about being out with someone other than Angela.

I finished my dinner alone, drank my wine alone and, in time, went along the corridor to my bed, alone.

Eleanor did call eventually, at five to midnight.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Atwo-year-old with a bad haemorrhage in its lung. Still a bit touch and go. I’ll have to stay here. Also it’s a bit late for dessert and coffee.’ She laughed nervously at her own little joke.

‘I’m in bed anyway,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. I’ll call you in the morning.’

‘Right.’ Did she sound relieved? Or was it my imagination? ‘Goodnight.’

‘Night,’ I replied, and disconnected.

Life and love were very complicated, I reflected, as I drifted off to sleep.

On Friday morning I went shopping in Newbury. A taxi picked me up from the hotel and I spent a couple of hours buying myself, maybe not a complete new wardrobe, but enough to see me through the next few weeks at Oxford Crown Court.

The hotel receptionist raised a questioning eyebrow when I arrived back at the Queen’s Arms with two suitcases of luggage that I hadn’t had the previous night.

‘Lost by the airline,’ I said to her, and she nodded knowingly.

She carried the cases to my room as I struggled along behind her with the damn crutches.

‘Are you staying tonight, then?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ I said. ‘Someone told me at breakfast that late check-out would be OK.’ For a fee, of course.

‘Oh yes, that’s fine,’ she said. ‘The room is free tonight if you want it.’ I presumed she didn’t mean free as in money, but free as in unoccupied.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’ And I closed the door.

I eased myself out of the white plastic shell and chanced standing in the shower without it, letting a stream of cool water
wash away the grime and bring relief to my itching body. I washed my hair with new shampoo, brushed my teeth with a new toothbrush, and shaved my chin with a new razor. I then reluctantly put myself back in the plastic straightjacket before dressing in crisp clean new shirt and trousers. I suddenly felt so much better. Almost a new man, in fact.

The taxi returned after lunch and took me to Uffington, back to the Radcliffes’ place. I had called Larry Clayton to say I was coming and he was sitting in his office when I arrived about two thirty, the same scuffed cowboy boots resting on his desk. It had been only two days since I had been here, but somehow it seemed longer.

‘How can I help?’ he said, not getting up.

I handed him a copy of the Millie and foal photo.

‘Do you recognize anyone in this picture?’ I asked him.

He studied it quite closely. ‘Nope,’ he said finally.

‘The foal is Peninsula,’ I said.

He looked again at the picture.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Still can’t help you.’

‘When did you say you arrived here?’ I asked him.

‘Last September,’ he said.

‘Where were you before?’ I said.

‘Up in Cheshire,’ he said. ‘I managed a meat-packing plant in Runcorn.’

‘Bit different from this,’ I said. ‘How did you get this job?’

‘I applied,’ he said. ‘Why, what’s your problem?’ He lifted his feet off the desk and sat upright in his chair.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No problem. Just seems funny to move from meat packing to foals.’

‘Perhaps they wanted me for my man-management skills,’ he said, clearly annoyed with my questions.

‘Is there anyone working here now who was here when Peninsula was born?’ I asked, trying to change direction.

‘Doubt it,’ he said unhelpfully, leaning back and replacing his feet on the desk. It was his way of telling me that my time was up.

‘Well, keep the photo anyway,’ I said. ‘If anyone recognizes the man will you ask them to give me a call.’ I handed him one of my business cards but I suspected that he would put it in the waste bin beside his desk as soon as I was through the door, together with the photo.

‘When did you say the Radcliffes will be back?’ I asked him from the doorway.

‘The Kentucky Derby is at Louisville tomorrow,’ he said, leaning further back in his chair. ‘They’ll be back sometime after that.’ He seemed determined not to be too helpful.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Would you ask them to look at the picture as well, please?’

‘Maybe,’ he said.

The taxi had waited for me and I asked the driver to take me back to the Queen’s Arms. That had all been a waste of time, I thought.

I called Eleanor and asked her if I should stay for a second night or go on to Oxford. Arthur had booked my hotel from the Friday, and I had already called to check that all my boxes had arrived there safely.

‘I’m on call again,’ she said.

‘Is everything all right?’ I asked her. She seemed strangely reticent for someone who had previously been so forthcoming, almost eager.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m just very busy at the moment.’

Was it something I had said, I wondered.

‘But would you like to have dinner together?’ I asked. ‘You may not be paged tonight.’ There was a pause from the other end of the line. ‘But we can leave it if you like,’ I went on quickly. Was I being too pushy?

‘Geoffrey,’ she said seriously. ‘I’d love to have dinner with you, but…’

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘I’ll have to come back here afterwards.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said, upbeat. ‘Why don’t we have dinner at the Fox and Hounds in Uffington, and then I’ll get a taxi to take me on to Oxford while you go back to Lambourn.’

‘Great,’ she said, sounding a little relieved.

‘Are you sure everything’s all right?’ I asked her again.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I promise. Everything is fine.’

We disconnected and I was left wondering whether men could ever fully understand women.

We had arranged to meet at the Fox and Hounds at eight. I had noticed the pub on both my trips to the Radcliffe place. It was a yellow plastered building set close to the road in Uffington High Street and I arrived early at ten past seven in a taxi with my two suitcases.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the publican as I struggled in through the door with both cases and my crutches. ‘We don’t have any accommodation, we’re only a pub.’

I explained to him that another taxi was picking me up later and he kindly allowed me to store my bags in his office in the interim.

‘Now,’ he said as I half sat myself on one of the Windsor-style bar stools. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Glass of red, please,’ I said. ‘Merlot, if you have it.’

He poured a generous measure and set the glass down on the wooden bar top.

‘I called and booked for dinner,’ I said.

‘Mr Mason?’ he said. I nodded. ‘For two? At eight?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m early.’ I looked around the bar. I was so early that, even on a Friday evening, I was his only customer. ‘Quiet tonight,’ I said to him.

‘It’ll be much busier later,’ he said. ‘All my regulars will be in soon.’

I rather hoped that Larry Clayton would not be amongst them.

I pulled a copy of the Millie and foal photograph from my jacket and placed it on the bar. ‘Do you recognize either of the people in this picture?’ I said, pushing it towards him.

He had a good look. ‘I don’t know the woman,’ he said. ‘But I think the man is Jack Rensburg.’

‘Does he live round here?’ I said. I could hardly control my excitement. I had thought the pub might be a long shot and hadn’t expected to get an answer so quickly.

‘He used to,’ the publican replied. ‘He worked at the stables on the Woolstone road. He’s been gone for two or three years, at least.’

‘How well did you know him?’ I asked.

‘Is he in trouble?’ he said.

‘No, nothing like that,’ I assured him with a laugh.

‘He used to talk a lot about cricket,’ he said. ‘He’s South African. He played for the village team here and they come into the pub after matches in the summer. He was always going on about how much better the South Africans were than the English team. But it was just banter. He’s a nice enough chap.’

‘Do you know why he left?’ I asked.

‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I think he went away on holiday and never came back.’

‘And you don’t know when exactly?’ I asked him.

He thought for a moment but shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

Some more customers arrived and he went off to serve them.

So, I thought, the stud groom was called Jack Rensburg and he was a South African who liked cricket and he had left Uffington at least two or three years ago, possibly to go on a holiday from which he had not returned. Young men the world over, especially those living away from their homeland, went on holidays all the time from which they didn’t return. The nomadic life of the young expatriate male should not be a surprise to anyone. Perhaps he met a girl, or simply went home and stayed there.

Eleanor arrived promptly at eight and I was still half standing, half sitting on the bar stool enjoying a second glass of Merlot.

She came over, gave me a peck on the cheek and sat on the stool next to me and ordered a glass of white. Where, I thought, had the kiss on the lips gone?

‘Had a good day?’ she asked rather gloomily, tasting her wine.

‘Yes, actually, I have. I’ve bought up most of the menswear in Newbury, washed, shaved and preened my body, and,’ I said with a flourish, ‘I’ve discovered the name of the man in the picture.’

‘Wow,’ she said, mocking. ‘You have been a busy boy.’ She smiled and it felt like the sun had come out.

‘That’s better,’ I said, smiling back. ‘And what have you been up to?’

‘I’ve spent most of the day monitoring the two-year-old from last night. And discussing his future with the owner.’ She raised
her eyes to the heavens. ‘He would have much rather I put the animal down than save its life.’

‘How come?’ I said.

‘Seems it’s insured against being dead, but not against being a hopeless racehorse.’

‘And is it a hopeless racehorse?’ I asked.

‘It might be after yesterday,’ she said. ‘Might not be able to race at all. Much more profitable to him dead.’

‘Is bleeding in the lungs common in horses?’ I asked.

‘Fairly,’ she said. ‘But mostly EIPH. This one was a static bleed.’

‘EIPH?’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Exercise-induced pulmonary haemorrhage.’

I began to wish I’d never asked.

‘Lots of horses bleed slightly into their lungs during stressful exercise but that usually clears up quickly and spontaneously without too much damage and without any blood showing externally. Horses’ lungs are big and efficient but they need to be. Aracehorse needs masses of oxygen delivered to its muscles to run fast. You just have to see how hard they blow after the finish.’ She paused, but only for breath herself. ‘During the race their action helps their breathing. As they stretch out their hind quarters, they draw air in, and then that’s blown out again by their legs coming forward in the stride. It makes Thoroughbreds very efficient gallopers when both their hind legs move together, pumping air in and out of their lungs like pistons. But it also means that the air fairly rushes in and out at hurricane speeds and that sometimes damages the lining, which, by definition, has to be flimsy and fragile to let the oxygen pass into the bloodstream in the first place.’