‘See you in the morning, my boy,’ I called to him as I left his box. I often wondered if our equine partners had any notion of the depth of our devotion for them.

Laura, Paul’s wife, cooked us supper and, as always, we sat round the bleached-pine kitchen table, eating her best macaroni cheese with onions. It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the hot topic in racing circles.

‘So, do you think he did it?’ said Paul between mouthfuls.

‘Who? Steve Mitchell?’ I said.

‘Umm,’ he said while ladling another spoonful of the pasta into his mouth.

‘The evidence seems to suggest it,’ I said.

‘What is the world coming to?’ Paul said. ‘When I used to ride there was always greater camaraderie than there is nowadays.’

I thought that Paul was wearing rose-tinted spectacles in his memory of how things used to be. Rivalry amongst jockeys had always been alive and well, and certainly had been in the nineteenth century, in the time of the great Fred Archer, when causing your rival to miss his steam train to the next meeting was as legitimate a tactic as out-riding him in a close finish.

‘Well, do you think he did it?’ I asked Paul.

‘I don’t know, you’re the lawyer,’ he replied.

‘He would have to have been incredibly stupid to have left all those clues,’ I said. ‘The murder weapon left sticking in the victim belonged to him. And he supposedly texted a message to Barlow that afternoon saying he was coming round to sort him out.’

‘I thought Steve Mitchell had more sense,’ said Paul, shaking his head. He had clearly convicted the accused before any defence witnesses had been called.

‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘There are many questions that need answering in this case.’

‘But who else would have done it?’ asked Paul. ‘Everyone knew that Mitchell hated Barlow’s guts. You could cut the atmosphere between them with a knife.’

‘Reno Clemens has done well with both of them being out of the way,’ I said.

‘Oh come on,’ Paul said. ‘Reno might be a damn good jockey but he’s hardly a murderer. He hasn’t got the brains.’

‘He may have others around him who have,’ I said.

Paul waved a dismissive hand and refilled our wine glasses.

‘Do you know anyone called Julian Trent?’ I asked into the pause.

‘No,’ said Paul. Laura shook her head. ‘Is he a jockey?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not important, I just wondered.’

‘Who is he?’ Paul asked.

‘Just an ex-client of mine,’ I said. ‘His name has popped up in connection with Barlow a couple of times and I just wondered if you knew him. It doesn’t matter.’

There were a few moments of silence as we concentrated on our food.

‘Do you know why Barlow and Mitchell hated each other so much?’ I asked.

‘Wasn’t it something to do with Barlow’s sister?’ Paul said. ‘Mitchell had an affair with her or something.’

‘Such a shame,’ Laura interjected unexpectedly.

‘What’s a shame?’ I asked her.

‘About Scot Barlow’s sister,’ she said.

‘What about his sister?’ I said.

‘Don’t you know?’ she said. She went on when my blank expression gave her the answer. ‘She killed herself in June.’

‘How?’ I asked, wondering why Steve Mitchell hadn’t bothered to mention this to me.

‘At a party,’ Laura said. ‘Apparently she was depressed and injected herself with a huge dose of anaesthetic.’

‘How did she get anaesthetic?’ I asked.

‘She was a vet,’ said Paul. ‘Specialized in horses.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Lambourn,’ Paul replied. ‘She worked in the equine hospital there and most of the local trainers used her practice. She was one of a team, of course.’

‘You must remember,’ said Laura. ‘There was a huge fuss on the television and the papers were full of it.’

‘I was away for the first half of June,’ I said. ‘I must have missed it.’ I had been away advising a client up on a money-laundering charge in Gibraltar. The long arm of the English law still stretched far to our remaining colonies and dependencies. ‘Whose party was it?’ I asked.

‘Simon Dacey’s,’ said Paul.

I again looked rather blank.

‘He’s a trainer,’ said Paul. ‘Trains on the flat only. Moved to Lambourn about five years ago from Middleham in Wensleydale.’ That may account for why I didn’t know of him. ‘He threw the party after winning the Derby. You know, with Peninsula.’

Now, even I had heard of Peninsula. Hottest horseflesh property in the world. Horse of the Year as a two-year-old and, this season, winner of the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket in May, the Derby at Epsom in June, the Breeders Cup the previous month at Santa Anita Park in California, and now on his way to some lucrative earnings at stud.

‘That must have gone down well with the guests,’ I said rather flippantly.

‘It certainly didn’t,’ said Laura seriously. ‘We were there. We’ve known Simon since our Yorkshire days. Paul worked for him as an assistant when we first started. The party was huge. Massive marquee in the garden with live bands and everything. It was great fun. At least it was until someone found Millie Barlow.’

‘Where was she found?’ I asked.

‘In the house,’ said Paul. ‘Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms.’

‘Who found her?’ I said.

‘No idea,’ said Paul. ‘The police arrived and stopped the party about nine at night. It had been going since noon. Started off as Sunday lunch and just went on.’

‘What did the police do?’ I asked him.

‘Took our names and addresses and sent us home,’ he said. ‘Most of us hadn’t even been in the house. They asked for witnesses to tell them when they had last seen Millie Barlow, but we didn’t even know what she looked like so we left as soon as we could.’

‘And were they sure it was suicide?’

‘That’s what everyone thought,’ he said.

‘What was she depressed about?’

‘You seem very interested all of a sudden,’ said Paul.

‘Just my suspicious mind,’ I said with a laugh. ‘One violent death in a family is unfortunate; two within five months may be more than coincidental.’

‘Wow,’ said Laura, perking up her interest. ‘Are you saying that Millie was murdered?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘I just wondered if the inquest had found that she had killed herself, and why.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know if the inquest has been held.’

I hadn’t heard about the case, or read about it, but I knew that the Coroner’s Court system, like every other aspect of the law, was slow and tedious at times. It wasn’t unusual for an inquest to be opened and adjourned for many months, even years. I made a mental note to look it up on the internet.

‘So, how’s my horse,’ I said, changing the subject.

‘Slow and fat,’ said Paul, laughing, ‘like his owner.’

I toasted our slowness and fatness with good red wine, and added a few more ounces with a second helping of macaroni.

I adored riding out on cold, crisp winter’s mornings with my breath showing in the air and the frost white on the ground, glistening in the brightness of the sunlight. Sadly, this Friday was not one of those. Rain fell steadily, the plop, plop of the large drops clearly audible as they struck my helmet from high above.

Sandeman and I were number six in Paul’s string of ten horses as we walked through Great Milton on the way to the training gallops beyond the village, the horses’ metal shoes clicking on the hard roads. Both horses and riders were soaked even before we had left the stable yard with the dawn at seven thirty sharp, and now the water ran in rivulets down my neck inside my semi-waterproof jacket. But I didn’t care and neither did Sande-man. I could feel his rippling muscles beneath me. He knew exactly why he had been roused from his stable in the rain, and exactly where we were going. We were both clearly excited in anticipation of the gallop we would soon share.

The wind tore at my jacket and the raindrops stung my face, but nothing could wipe the grin from my mouth as we tore up the gallop at nearly thirty miles an hour with me trying hard to stop Sandeman going any faster. He clearly had recovered fully from the three miles last Saturday and he seemed as eager as I to get back on a racecourse.