Paul’s.
‘Older and wiser?’ I said, adding to Bruce’s discomfort.
He laughed. Anervous little laugh. He, too, was not quite what I had expected. Ironically, he was slightly older than I had thought from listening to him on the telephone, and he was less confident than I would have liked.
‘What are you drinking?’ I asked him.
‘I’m fine,’ he said pointing at a partially drained pint mug on the bar. ‘My round.’
‘Diet Coke then, please,’ I said.
We also ordered some food and took our drinks over to a table in the corner, where we could talk without the barman listening to every word.
‘Did you see Mitchell yesterday?’ asked Bruce.
‘Yes,’ I said without elaborating.
‘What did he say?’ asked Bruce eagerly.
‘Not much,’ I replied. ‘Says he’s being framed.’
‘I know that,’ said Bruce. ‘But do you believe him?’
I didn’t answer. ‘Did you know Scot Barlow had a sister?’ I asked him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Should I?’
‘Seems she killed herself last June,’ I said. He didn’t look any the wiser. ‘During a big party in Lambourn.’
‘What? Not that girl vet?’ he said.
‘One and the same,’ I said. ‘Millie Barlow.’
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘That was big news in these parts.’
‘Why?’ I asked him.
‘Speculation, I suppose,’ he said. ‘And all those celebrities at that party being held by the police.’
‘What sort of speculation?’
‘Drugs,’ he said. ‘Lots of cocaine sniffing, apparently. Always the way with celebs. It was initially thought the vet had died ofan overdose of it, but it turned out to be horse anaesthetic and it seems she did it on purpose.’
‘Do you know or are you guessing?’ I asked.
‘It’s what everyone says,’ he replied. ‘Seems she left a note or something.’
‘Seems a strange place to do it,’ I said.
‘Suicides do strange things,’ he said. ‘There was that one near here who drove his car onto the railway line and waited for it to get hit by a train. Stupid sod killed six more with him and injured hundreds of others. Why didn’t he just shut himself into his garage and quietly leave the engine running?’
‘Yeah, but ruining a party seems a bit…’ I tailed off.
‘Perhaps she had a grudge against the party giver, and she was extracting revenge. I once had a client whose ex-wife killed herself right outside the registry office as he was getting remarried inside.’
‘How?’ I asked.
‘Walked out under a lorry. Just like that. The poor driver had no chance.’
‘Bet that went down well with the wedding guests,’ I said.
‘I actually think my client was delighted,’ he said, grinning. ‘Saved him a fortune in alimony.’ We both laughed.
I was growing to like Bruce, and his confidence was growing too.
‘So tell me, what are we looking for at Barlow’s place?’ he said, changing the subject.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I always try to visit scenes of crime if I’m acting in a case. It helps me when it comes to questions in court. Also, it often gives some insight into the victim.’
‘So are you now acting in this case?’ he asked me.
‘Temporarily,’ I said, smiling at him. But was I acting for the prosecution or the defence?
We finished our lunch and Bruce drove us the few hundred yards to Church Street, leaving my hired Mondeo in the pub car park. Honeysuckle Cottage was a beautiful old stone building set back from the road amongst a copse of tall horse-chestnut trees, their branches now bare of the leaves that lay deep and uncollected on the driveway. I couldn’t actually see or smell any of the honeysuckle after which the cottage had been named, but it was hardly the right season.
The place was surrounded on all sides by grand houses with large gardens, mostly invisible behind tall evergreen hedges or high stone walls. Not much chance here, I thought, of a nosey neighbour witnessing the comings and goings at the Barlow residence.
There were already two
‘Older and wiser?’ I said, adding to Bruce’s discomfort.
He laughed. Anervous little laugh. He, too, was not quite what I had expected. Ironically, he was slightly older than I had thought from listening to him on the telephone, and he was less confident than I would have liked.
‘What are you drinking?’ I asked him.
‘I’m fine,’ he said pointing at a partially drained pint mug on the bar. ‘My round.’
‘Diet Coke then, please,’ I said.
We also ordered some food and took our drinks over to a table in the corner, where we could talk without the barman listening to every word.
‘Did you see Mitchell yesterday?’ asked Bruce.
‘Yes,’ I said without elaborating.
‘What did he say?’ asked Bruce eagerly.
‘Not much,’ I replied. ‘Says he’s being framed.’
‘I know that,’ said Bruce. ‘But do you believe him?’
I didn’t answer. ‘Did you know Scot Barlow had a sister?’ I asked him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Should I?’
‘Seems she killed herself last June,’ I said. He didn’t look any the wiser. ‘During a big party in Lambourn.’
‘What? Not that girl vet?’ he said.
‘One and the same,’ I said. ‘Millie Barlow.’
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘That was big news in these parts.’
‘Why?’ I asked him.
‘Speculation, I suppose,’ he said. ‘And all those celebrities at that party being held by the police.’
‘What sort of speculation?’
‘Drugs,’ he said. ‘Lots of cocaine sniffing, apparently. Always the way with celebs. It was initially thought the vet had died ofan overdose of it, but it turned out to be horse anaesthetic and it seems she did it on purpose.’
‘Do you know or are you guessing?’ I asked.
‘It’s what everyone says,’ he replied. ‘Seems she left a note or something.’
‘Seems a strange place to do it,’ I said.
‘Suicides do strange things,’ he said. ‘There was that one near here who drove his car onto the railway line and waited for it to get hit by a train. Stupid sod killed six more with him and injured hundreds of others. Why didn’t he just shut himself into his garage and quietly leave the engine running?’
‘Yeah, but ruining a party seems a bit…’ I tailed off.
‘Perhaps she had a grudge against the party giver, and she was extracting revenge. I once had a client whose ex-wife killed herself right outside the registry office as he was getting remarried inside.’
‘How?’ I asked.
‘Walked out under a lorry. Just like that. The poor driver had no chance.’
‘Bet that went down well with the wedding guests,’ I said.
‘I actually think my client was delighted,’ he said, grinning. ‘Saved him a fortune in alimony.’ We both laughed.
I was growing to like Bruce, and his confidence was growing too.
‘So tell me, what are we looking for at Barlow’s place?’ he said, changing the subject.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I always try to visit scenes of crime if I’m acting in a case. It helps me when it comes to questions in court. Also, it often gives some insight into the victim.’
‘So are you now acting in this case?’ he asked me.
‘Temporarily,’ I said, smiling at him. But was I acting for the prosecution or the defence?
We finished our lunch and Bruce drove us the few hundred yards to Church Street, leaving my hired Mondeo in the pub car park. Honeysuckle Cottage was a beautiful old stone building set back from the road amongst a copse of tall horse-chestnut trees, their branches now bare of the leaves that lay deep and uncollected on the driveway. I couldn’t actually see or smell any of the honeysuckle after which the cottage had been named, but it was hardly the right season.
The place was surrounded on all sides by grand houses with large gardens, mostly invisible behind tall evergreen hedges or high stone walls. Not much chance here, I thought, of a nosey neighbour witnessing the comings and goings at the Barlow residence.
There were already two
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