‘And no one much cares for either of them,’ he went on. ‘Barlow was slightly weird, and Steve Mitchell is arrogant.’

‘But do you really think he’s a murderer?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I have to say I was surprised when I heard he’d been arrested. But people do funny things when they’re angry. They lose control.’

How right he was. I’d once helped prosecute a psychopath who’s family had sworn that he wouldn’t normally have even said boo to a goose, but in a rage he had literally torn his wife limb from limb, with nothing more than his bare hands and a potato peeler.

‘So can I call you if I need to ask you anything else?’ I asked.

‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But I can’t think I would know anything that everybody else wouldn’t know. I didn’t have much to do with either of them. I don’t have jumpers in my yard.’

‘Sometimes even the smallest thing is important in a defence,’ I replied.

‘Do you really think he’s innocent?’ he asked me.

‘That’s not relevant,’ I said. ‘My job is to cast doubt on the prosecution’s case. I don’t have to prove his innocence, just create a reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind about his guilt.’

‘But surely,’ he said, ‘if you believe he’s guilty then you’re not doing the public any service by getting him off.’

‘It is the prosecution’s job to ensure that the jury have no reasonable doubt, not mine.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s a funny old system,’ he said.

‘I agree,’ I said. ‘But it has worked pretty well for hundreds of years.’

The jury system had its origins in Roman times, when huge juries would vote on the guilt or innocence of the accused. The right to be judged by a jury of one’s peers was established under law in England as far back as the thirteenth century, although there were semblances of it even before then. Under English law there is a right to trial by jury for all but very minor offences, as there is enshrined in the United States Constitution. But that is not the case around the world, not even across Europe. There is no such thing as a jury trial in modern Germany, for example, where a judge or panel of judges decide alone on guilt or innocence.

‘I really must go,’ said Simon Dacey, collecting the last of his things.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Nice to have met you. Good luck with the yearling.’

‘Thanks.’

We didn’t shake hands because his were full of papers, so we nodded again as we had done when I had arrived and he departed, me holding the door open for him on his way out.

I sat down again on a red armchair. The clock on the wall read 6.15.

What was I doing? I asked myself. I had now told far too many people that I was the barrister acting for the defence in Steve Mitchell’s case, but I knew that I shouldn’t act. I couldn’t act. I was a potential witness in the case, but only I was aware of that. No one, apart from Scot Barlow and I, knew of our little exchange at Sandown. Or did they? Had Barlow told someone that he had been seen by a ‘bloody amateur’ in the showers? I doubted it. So what should I do?

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.