He took a few steps forward and I was beginning to regret that I hadn’t simply gone back inside my chambers as soon as I had seen him. However, I did gratefully note that he wasn’t accompanied today by his sidekick, the baseball bat, but it might, I thought, have been lurking somewhere nearby.

He seemed about to say something to me but I beat him to it. ‘What the hell do you want?’ I shouted at him.

He seemed a little taken aback and looked around to see if anyone else had heard me. Theobald’s Road was a busy place at seven o’clock on a sunny May evening and a continuous stream of pedestrians flowed past the gated entrance. A few heads had turned as I’d shouted but no one had actually stopped.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ I shouted again. ‘I asked you what the hell do you want.’

He was definitely unnerved by a reaction he hadn’t been expecting.

‘Did you get the message?’ he said.

‘Do you mean this?’ I shouted at him pulling the envelope and the paper out of my trouser pocket and ripping them both into several pieces. By this time he was standing less than ten feet from me. I threw the bits of paper into the air and they fluttered to the ground at his feet. ‘Now sod off,’ I shouted at him.

‘Stop shouting,’ he said.

‘Why should I?’ I shouted even louder, the sound of my voice echoing back to me from the buildings all around us. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Shut up,’ he said, hissing at me.

I stood my ground and raised one of the crutches as a potential weapon. ‘I’ll shut up,’ I shouted at the top of my voice, ‘when you go away and leave me in peace.’

He clenched and unclenched his right fist. Perhaps he was regretting not bringing his baseball bat with him after all.

‘Do as you’re told,’ he said menacingly, again almost under his breath, as if being extra quiet might compensate for my extra noisiness.

‘Why?’ I shouted again at full volume. ‘Who wants me to? Who are you working for, you little creep? Get out of my life, do you hear? And stay out.’

One or two heads out on Theobald’s Road were turned our way and one man stopped and stared at us. Julian Trent seemed to be losing his nerve.

‘You’ll regret this,’ he said quietly through gritted teeth. ‘You’ll bloody regret this.’

And with that, he was gone, dodging out through the gateway, past the staring pedestrian, and off down Theobald’s Road towards Clerkenwell. I stood there for a moment breathing deeply and wondered if I had made a big mistake. Perhaps, as Trent had said, I would regret it. But simply rolling over was not an option. I would not be dictated to, and my father and Eleanor would, like me, have to take their chances. To succumb to these threats in this case would simply invite more threats in the future. Both Josef Hughes and George Barnett had complied with the first demands and, in each case, the menace had returned for more.

I was aware that over the past few months I had become fairly ambivalent about the outcome of the Steve Mitchell trial. If he was convicted, then I would have nothing to fear from Julian Trent, or whoever was behind him. If he was acquitted then I could hold my head up for justice.

Now, suddenly, the result became incredibly important to me. If Mitchell was innocent, and I was sure that he must be, then I had to find a way to show it. And to do that, I had to find out who actually had committed the murder, and soon.

As things stood, I was pretty sure that he would be convicted simply because there was no credible indication to show that he didn’t do it and the circumstantial evidence would be enough to sway the jury. True, there was none of Mitchell’s DNA at the scene, but Barlow’s blood and DNA had been found on Mitchell’s boots and in his car, and that alone was very damning. If I were the prosecutor in the case, I would be highly confident of a guilty verdict. Even Sir James Horley QC, who was meant to be leading for the defence, seemed sure of the defendant’s guilt and had even suggested to me that I go and see Mitchell in prison and encourage him to plead guilty. I had the distinct impression that, just this time, Sir James was going to be happy to let me conduct the case throughout. I suspected that he would find a good reason not to go to Oxford on the first day, and then he would use that as the excuse for not going at all. And that would suit me just fine.

But, short of resorting to the Trent method of intimidating the jury into returning a ‘not guilty’ verdict, I still couldn’t see what I could do to get Mitchell off the charge.

What exactly was Julian Trent’s connection with racing, and with a murdered jockey? Was the man who had been to see both Josef Hughes and George Barnett actually Julian Trent’s father or was it somebody else? It was time to find out.

Eleanor was at the restaurant in Berkeley Square before me. She was seated on a stool at the bar facing away from me. I could see her back. I had been looking forward to this evening all day, so why did I now have cold feet? Why, all of a sudden, did I experience the urge to run away? Why did I feel so afraid? I had just faced up to Julian Trent, so why should I have any fears of Eleanor?

She turned round on the stool, saw me at the door, smiled and waved. I waved back. What, I asked myself, was I really afraid of here? It was a question I couldn’t even begin to answer.

Over dinner, Eleanor and I discussed everything except ourselves, and specifically our relationship. I asked her about the equine symposium and she seemed to be surprised at how useful it was being.

‘I’ve learned a lot,’ she said over our starters. ‘Some of the new treatments have potential for us in Lambourn, especially in the treatment of ligaments and tendons. There are some wonderful things being done with artificial replacements. Some horses that in the past would have been retired due to tendon trouble will soon be able to continue racing.’

‘Bionic horses,’ I said flippantly. ‘The six-million-dollar horse.’

‘No. Much much more than that,’ she said, laughing. ‘Peninsula was syndicated to stud for ten times that.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘And to think he was foaled by a first-time vet.’

‘Quite a responsibility,’ she agreed. ‘But, of course, they didn’t know then how good he’d turn out to be.’

‘I wish I had a copy of that photograph,’ I said.

‘The one of Millie with Peninsula as a foal?’ Eleanor said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was taken from Scot Barlow’s house the day he was murdered.’

‘You really think it’s important?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But the murderer must have thought it was important enough to remove from its frame and take away with him.’

‘How do you know it was the murderer who took it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t for sure,’ I said. ‘But whoever did take it also took care to wipe the frame clean. There were no fingerprints on it.’

‘I remember that photograph so well,’ Eleanor said. ‘Millie showed it to everyone. She kept it on the mantelpiece in her room and she was always polishing the frame.’

‘Describe it,’ I said.

‘It was just a photo,’ she said. ‘Millie was kneeling on the straw with the foal’s head in her lap. The mare was standing behind them but you couldn’t really see her properly. You could only see her hind quarters.’

‘Wasn’t there someone else in it as well?’ I asked.

‘There was the stud groom standing behind Millie. I think he was cleaning the mare after foaling, you know.’

I couldn’t see how it was so important.

‘And you don’t know who took the picture?’ I asked her.

‘No idea,’ she said.

‘Wasn’t Peninsula foaled at the Radcliffe place?’ I said.

‘They have lots of foals born there,’ Eleanor said. ‘They’ve made quite a business out of it. But we have less to do with them than we used to.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘They’ve got so big that they now have a resident vet. They don’t use the hospital practice any more unless one of their horses needs surgery.’