Silks by Dick Francis, Felix Francis Page A

you should call him as soon as you got back.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering how he knew where I was. I looked at my watch. It was ten to nine.
    I removed the bridle and saddle from Sandeman and replaced them with his head-collar and a dry rug.
    ‘Sorry, old boy,’ I said to him. ‘I’ll be back to finish you in a while.’
    I shut the stable door before the horse bolted and went inside, dripping water all over Laura’s clean kitchen floor.
    ‘Bruce,’ I said when he answered. ‘How did you know where I was?’
    ‘Your clerk told me that you weren’t due in court today, and you had told him you wouldn’t be in chambers, so he said you were probably riding your nag.’ I could almost hear Arthur saying it. ‘After that it was easy. I looked up who trained your nag on the Racing Post website.’
    If Bruce Lygon could find me so easily, then so could young Julian Trent, or, indeed, whoever was behind Julian Trent, the smooth whispering man on the telephone. I must learn to be more careful.
    ‘Do you often frequent the Racing Post website?’ I asked Bruce sarcastically.
    ‘All the time,’ he said eagerly. ‘I love my racing.’
    ‘Well, don’t tell me if you ever won or lost money on Scot Barlow or Steve Mitchell,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to know.’ And neither should anyone else, I thought.
    ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘Never thought of that.’
    ‘So how can I help you?’ I asked him.
    ‘It’s me helping you, actually,’ he replied. ‘I’ve managed to get us a visit to the crime scene.’
    ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘When?’
    ‘Today,’ he said. ‘The police say we can go there at two this afternoon. But they say it will be an accompanied visit only.’
    Fair enough, I thought. I was surprised they would let us in at all this soon.
    ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’
    ‘Great Shefford,’ he said. ‘Small village between Lambourn and Newbury. Place called Honeysuckle Cottage.’ It didn’t sound like a site of bloody murder. ‘Meet you there at two?’
    ‘Is there a pub?’ I asked him.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think so. There’s one on the main road.’
    ‘Shall we meet there at one o’clock?’ I said. ‘For some lunch?’
    ‘Ah.’ He thought. ‘Yes I think that will be fine. But keep your phone on just in case’
    ‘OK,’ I said. ‘See you later.’
    ‘How will you know which one is me?’ he asked.
    ‘You’ll have a rolled up copy of the Racing Post under your arm.’ I laughed, and so did he.
    The Racing Post wasn’t needed. There were only three other people in the bar when I walked into the Swan Inn at one o’clock sharp and two of them were clearly a couple, heads close together and holding hands as if they were having a secret lovers’ tryst far from home.
    The third person was a man who looked to be in his mid to late forties and who was wearing a light grey suit with white shirt and blue striped tie. He looked at me briefly, then his gaze slid over my shoulder back to the door as if expecting somebody else.
    ‘Bruce?’ I asked him, walking up close.
    ‘Yes?’ he said as a question, returning his gaze briefly to my face before again looking over my shoulder.
    ‘I’m Geoffrey,’ I said. ‘Geoffrey Mason.’
    ‘Oh,’ he said. He seemed reluctant to take his eyes off the door. ‘I was expecting someone…, you know, a bit older.’
    It was a reaction I was used to. I would be thirty-six in January but, it seemed, I appeared somewhat younger. This was not always an asset in court, where some judges often equated age with ability. On this occasion I imagined that Bruce was expecting me to be dressed similarly to him, in suit and tie, while, in fact, I was in jeans and a brown suede bomber jacket over an open-necked check shirt. Maybe it was because I was still trying to tell myself that I couldn’t actually represent Steve Mitchell that I had decided against my sober dark suit when I had changed out of my sopping wet riding clothes at