‘Had the murder weapon been withdrawn from the victim after death?’ I asked him in cross-examination.
‘No,’ he said. ‘When I was first called to the scene, I found the pitchfork still stuck very firmly into Mr Barlow – so firmly, in fact, that it proved impossible to remove at the scene. And I later determined that the puncture wounds to his abdomen, his diaphragm and his heart were all consistent with the weapon having been inserted into the body just once.’
‘So anything found on the prongs of the fork between Mr Barlow’s body and the fork handle would have had to have been there prior to the fatal blow being struck?’
‘Indeed,’ he said.
‘And was there anything on the prongs?’ I prompted him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There were some pieces of paper.’
‘Debit card receipts, I believe?’ I said.
‘I’m not aware of what they were, just that they were present,’ he said. ‘They were taken away by the police during the postmortem examination at the Royal Berkshire Hospital in Reading, when the murder weapon was finally removed from the body.’
I could only imagine the trouble someone must have had in transporting Barlow’s dead body the twenty-six miles from his kitchen floor to the Royal Berkshire Hospital mortuary with a five-foot-long pitchfork firmly embedded in its chest.
The judge adjourned early for the day at four o’clock.
Eleanor didn’t come to Oxford on Tuesday night either. There was a message from her on my mobile after the adjournment explaining that one of her colleagues was ill and she had to stay in Lambourn to cover for her. Again, strangely, I was somewhat relieved.
Perhaps it was the expectation, her expectation, that worried me most. It had been a long time since I had slept with anyone, and then it had been Angela, with whom I had been familiar, relaxed and comfortable. Suddenly the prospect of someone new between my sheets filled me with apprehension and worry. Stop being stupid, I said to myself, but the nagging fear of failure and rejection still persisted.
There were, in fact, two messages on my phone.
The other one was from the whisperer.
‘Lose the case,’ he whispered. ‘Or else.’
The message had been left at twelve noon that day. No doubt shortly after Julian Trent had reported back to him on the court proceedings and my determined efforts to undermine the police inspector. How long would it take the whisperer to work out, I wondered, that I became more and more determined to win every time he told me to lose?
I hadn’t been outside the court at lunchtime for fear of running into young Mr Trent. Now, at the end of the day, I waited in the courthouse lobby until I saw my taxi pull up close to the doors before I emerged. Most of my boxes remained in the court secure storage overnight but I had one with me in order to prepare for the following day’s witnesses.
I clambered into the taxi with my box and crutches and made it safely, unmolested, back to my hotel.
The reception staff thought me a little crazy when I insisted that under no circumstances were they to give my room number to anyone, not even, I said, if they tell you they’re my father. And, also, they were not to put any calls through to my room without asking the caller for their name, and telling me that first.
I also asked them how many rooms were free in the hotel for the night.
‘Twelve,’ one of the female staff said.
‘Then could I please change rooms from last night?’ I asked.
‘Didn’t you like your room, sir?’ she said.
‘It was fine,’ I said. ‘I would just like to have another one tonight.’
‘I will have to check with my manager,’ she said. ‘The old room would then need to be cleaned and the staff have left for the day.’
‘Could it not be left until tomorrow?’ I said.
‘But then, sir, we couldn’t let it tonight, could we?’ She was being rather condescending, I thought.
I decided not to mention that, with twelve rooms still unreserved at five o’clock in the afternoon, it was unlikely that they would all be needed.
She went out the back to consult and returned to tell me that it would be fine to move but I would need to pay a late check-out fee on the first room.
‘Right, then,’ I said to her. ‘Can you please arrange a taxi to take me to the Randolph?’
She rapidly disappeared out the back again. A man in a suit, presumably the manager, came out from his office.
‘Mr Mason,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about the confusion. Of course you may change rooms if you wish. There will be no extra charge.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Would you please send a porter up for my things?’
‘Which room would you like to have?’ he said.
‘One at the Randolph,’ I replied.
‘Now Mr Mason,’ he said with a smile. ‘I am sure we can come to an arrangement.’
We did. I secured a twenty per cent discount on the room rate, backdated to last Friday, together with a complimentary bottle of red wine to be sent up to my new room. It really was useful, sometimes, to be trained in advocacy.
In truth, I didn’t really want to move hotels at all. I knew the Randolph, and I liked it, but the converted modern interior of this place made it much easier for me to cope with the crutches even if the room doors were rather narrow as they had been the cell doors of the old prison.
Having settled in to my new room, I lay on the bed with a glass of wine and started reading through the papers for the next day.
The phone rang. I answered it.
‘Mr Mason? This is the hotel operator. I have a Miss Clarke on the phone for you. Will you accept the call?
Miss Clarke? Who was Miss Clarke?
Suddenly I remembered. ‘Oh yes, thank you,’ I said to the operator.
‘What’s all that about?’ Eleanor asked when she was put through.
‘Just my way of screening unwanted calls,’ I said cheerfully.
‘And have you had any?’ she asked me seriously.
‘One or two,’ I said.
‘From Julian Trent?’ she said.
‘From whoever is behind him,’ I said.
‘You take care,’ she ordered.
‘You take care too,’ I said. ‘Remember, he knows where you live. Don’t go anywhere on your own. Not even across to the hospital from your house.’
‘Surely I’m safe enough here?’ she said.
‘Trent attacked me within five yards of the front door of my chambers,’ I said. ‘Please don’t assume anything when it comes to this man. He’s very dangerous.’
‘Stop it. You’re frightening me,’ she said.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Be frightened. Be very frightened. I am.’
‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘You’ve made your point.’
‘Are you sure you can’t come over here?’ I said. ‘I would be much happier if you were here with me.’
‘Now, now, Mister Barrister Man, don’t be too eager.’ She laughed.
‘I really meant for your security,’ I said seriously.
‘You really do mean it, don’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes. I do. You have no idea how frightening these people are until it’s too late. Remember what they did to my house.’
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
‘How are we ever going to be free of them?’ she said.
‘I’m working on it,’ I said. But I didn’t know how either.
Detective Constable Hillier, the young policeman I had first met at Barlow’s house with Bruce Lygon, was the next witness for the prosecution when the court reconvened at ten thirty on Wednesday morning.
I had kept my eyes open for Julian Trent as I had arrived at the court building but there had been no sign of him. Somewhat perversely, I had rather hoped that he would be there, as it meant he wouldn’t have been elsewhere delivering mayhem to my loved ones or their property. Now, I simply worried.