were fundraising in Bristol and, worried that Drummond and Poppy might be corrupted by a potential jailbird, had bussed in Granny Playbridge to hold the fort. On the judge’s left sat Cecil Stroud QC, a smoothie with a deep throbbing voice, a dark brown toupee, and black eyebrows big as steeplechasing fences, which he raised to great effect.
On the train down, he and Marti Gluckstein had agreed to wrap the matter up in a day.
Facing the judge at the far end of the table were rows of chairs, the left-hand side occupied by Etta’s supporters, the right hand by Judy Tobias. Each thigh in her pink trouser suit was as large as a young sow. Her ankles flopped over her flat red shoes and her breasts, jacked up together, created a vast cleavage.
‘My God, they are big,’ muttered Alban.
‘Jude the Obese,’ grinned Alan. ‘We could go pot-holing down her later. She must have bought that colossal diamond herself.’
‘Quite a pretty face,’ conceded Alban, noticing how fondly, as she made copious notes in a mauve diary, Jude’s black starfish-mascaraed eyes rested on the ratty little profile of Harvey-Holden, who totally ignored her.
‘He ought to get her on the horse walker,’ said Alan.
Niall glanced round the packed room. If only his church was a quarter as full. Since he had come out, his mother had gone into deep depression at the prospect of no grandchildren.
‘Respect is so much more important than love, Niall. Surely you could find some nice girl?’
Harvey-Holden obviously had, thought Niall with a shudder. And how could he meet a nice man? Vicars couldn’t go clubbing. He admired Woody’s strong suntanned neck in the row in front of him and longed to stroke it, his heart twisting with loneliness.
The usher came over and told them the proceedings were about to begin and they should address Judge Wilkes as ‘sir’. Then, pausing beside Alban, he murmured: ‘My brother was in the army in the Middle East, sir. Said you were the best person from the Foreign Office they ever had. Said you really understood the Arabs.’
‘Good God.’ Alban, already flushed from the heat, turned maroon with pleasure and leapt to his feet. ‘How awfully kind of you to say so. Made my day. Thank you so much, and to your brother. What regiment was he in?’
But the usher had put his finger to his lips, as Judge Wilkes cleared his throat and welcomed everyone.
‘I’d just like to point out that once a decision is made on this case, it is unappealable.’ Then, with a half-smile: ‘My word is law.’
Woody turned and smiled at Niall. ‘You better get praying, Rev.’
‘Awfully kind of that chap,’ said Alban.
Cecil Stroud opened the batting, claiming Mrs Wilkinson was an extremely valuable mare of impeccable pedigree, who must have been stolen from Ralph Harvey-Holden’s yard, but had been believed to have perished in the fire.
Marti Gluckstein consulted his notes.
‘After the fire, your client claimed insurance on the mare.’
‘And will shortly be paying it back,’ said Cecil Stroud firmly.
‘Can he explain why Mrs Wilkinson was found in such an appalling condition?’ asked Marti.
‘She was always a strong and wayward filly, sir. My client’s theory is that whoever stole her couldn’t get a tune out of her and beat her up, perhaps additionally trying to starve her into submission and denying her water to weaken her, a common practice among reprehensible trainers.’
‘Your client should know,’ observed Marti dryly.
‘Objection,’ snapped Cecil Stroud. ‘Whoever treated Usurper so badly, leaving her to die in the snow, gouged out her microchip to avoid detection.’
‘Why didn’t Mr Harvey-Holden report the mare missing?’
‘Because he assumed she’d perished in the fire. His horses had been so badly burnt, it was impossible to identify them afterwards,’ said Cecil as though he was explaining to a half-witted child.
‘But if he believed her to have perished in the fire on the twelfth of December,’ persisted Marti, ‘and she was actually found by Mrs Bancroft on the twenty-third of December, this would not have been enough time for her to be reduced to such a skeleton. Had Mr Harvey-Holden starved her himself ? If not, surely she would have had to go missing several weeks if not months earlier.’
Cecil Stroud had been about to object but changed legs like an Olympic dressage horse:
‘My client was going through a very upsetting marriage breakup at the time. He was further traumatized by the fire at the yard and when his head lad, Denny Forrester, confessed to starting the fire. My client