He nodded. ‘It’s bloody difficult, though.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But it’s very important. I’ll see you later.’

I went up in the lift and made some calls on my mobile.

There was no reply from Nikki’s phone, so I tried Arthur.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘Same as always at the start of a trial,’ I said.

‘That bad, huh?’ he said.

‘Worse. Have you heard from Nikki Payne?’ I asked him.

‘Who?’ he said.

‘Nikki Payne,’ I said again. ‘Solicitor’s clerk from Bruce Lygon’s firm. She said she would pass a message to me through you.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Hold on.’ I could hear him rustling papers. ‘Apparently she’s got something from the embassy and she’s chasing the lead. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Good. And thank you for my hotel. Very amusing.’

‘Thought you’d feel at home,’ he said, laughing.

Arthur had made reservations for me in Oxford at a hotel conveniently placed just a few hundred yards from the court building. And the reason he amusingly thought that I would feel at home was because the hotel had been created by converting the old Oxford Prison, which had housed a different clientele as recently as 1996. My room was in what had been ‘A’ wing of the prison, with galleried landings and rows of old cell doorways. It had all been tastefully converted but it still looked just like the interior of an old Victorian prison, except, of course, for the carpets. The hotel had obligingly left one cell as it had been in the prison days so the hotel guests could see how miserably the other half had once lived. I was amused to notice that porridge was on the breakfast menu.

‘Tell Nikki to call me later if she calls you again,’ I said to him. ‘I want to hear how she’s doing.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I will. Anything else you need?’

‘A cast-iron alibi for the defendant would be nice.’

‘See what I can do,’ he said, laughing, and hung up. Arthur would have to really work a miracle, I thought, to get Mr Mitchell out of this hole.

The afternoon proved to be as frustrating as the morning had been, with the investigating police officer in the witness box for the whole two and a half hours. Only once did the judge briefly adjourn things for a few minutes for us all to stretch our legs and visit the lavatories, and to give me some relief from the damn body shell cutting into my groin. How I wished I could have had my recliner chair from my room in chambers, instead of the upright seats of the court.

The policeman, having consulted his notebooks, went through the whole affair in chronological order, from the moment that the police had first arrived at Barlow’s house to discover the body until they had arrested Steve Mitchell at eight fifty-three that evening. He also went on to describe the investigation after the arrest, including the interviewing of the suspect and the forensic tests that the police had performed on Mitchell’s boots and car together with his understanding of the results, but, as he said, he was no expert on DNA testing.

We were assured by the prosecution that they would be calling their DNA expert witness in due course, together with a member of the police forensic team that had carried out the tests.

‘Inspector,’ said the prosecution QC. ‘What model of car did the defendant own at the time of the murder?’

‘An Audi A4,’ he said. ‘Silver.’

‘Yes,’ went on the QC, ‘and in the course of your enquiries did you determine if this car was fitted with a security alarm and immobilizer system?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was.’

‘And was the system found to be functioning correctly when the car was examined after the defendant’s arrest?’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘It was.’

‘So would it be accurate to say that the car could only be unlocked and then driven if the correct key had been used for the purpose?’

‘That is my understanding, yes,’ said the inspector.

‘Did you find any keys for the vehicle?’ the QC asked him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There were two such keys found in Mr Mitchell’s premises when he was arrested. One was on the defendant, in his trouser pocket on a ring with other keys, and the other one,’ he consulted his notebook, ‘was in the top drawer of Mr Mitchell’s desk in his study.’

‘And did you approach an Audi dealer and ask them about keys for their cars?’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘They informed me that it was normal for two keys to be issued with a new car and also that replacement or additional keys are only provided after strict security checks.’

‘And had any additional keys been requested for Mr Mitchell’s car?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘They had not.’

‘One last thing, Inspector,’ the QC said with a flourish. ‘Was Mr Mitchell’s car locked when you went to his home to arrest him?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was.’

‘Your witness,’ the prosecution QC said, turning to me.

I looked at the clock on the courtroom wall. It read twenty past four.

‘Would you like to start your cross-examination in the morning, Mr Mason?’ asked the judge expectantly.

‘If it pleases My Lord,’ I said, ‘I would like to ask a few questions now.’

The judge looked at the clock.

‘Ten minutes, then,’ he said.

‘Thank you, My Lord.’ I turned to the witness and consulted my papers. ‘Inspector McNeile, can you please tell the court how it was that the police first became aware that Mr Barlow had been murdered?’

He had left that bit out of his evidence.

‘I can’t remember how I first heard of it,’ he said.

‘I asked, Inspector, not how you personally found out, but how the police force in general was informed.’

‘I believe it was a call to the police station reporting an intruder at Mr Barlow’s residence,’ he said.

‘Who was this call from?’ I asked him.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have that information.’

‘But surely, Inspector, all emergency calls to the police are logged with the time they are made, and who they are from?’

‘That is the usual practice, yes,’ he said.

‘So how is it that you have no record of who it was that called the police to tell you that an intruder had been seen at Barlow’s house?’

He looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘The call was taken by the telephone on the desk of a civilian worker in the front office of the police station.’

‘Was that not unusual?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘And was the number of that telephone widely available to the public?’ I asked him.

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he said.

‘Do you not think it is strange that the call was taken on a telephone where the number was not widely known, a telephone where no log was taken of incoming calls, and a telephone on which no recording equipment was attached so that the caller and his number would be unknown?’

‘Mr Mason,’ the judge interjected. ‘That’s three questions in one.’

‘I’m sorry, My Lord,’ I said. ‘Inspector McNeile, would you agree with me that, until the police arrived at Mr Barlow’s house to discover his body, it is likely that the only person or persons who knew that Mr Barlow was dead would be those responsible for his murder?’

‘I suppose so, yes,’ he said.

‘Inspector, how many years in total have you been a detective?’ I asked him.

‘Fifteen,’ he said.

‘And how often in those fifteen years,’ I said to him, ‘have you been telephoned anonymously, on an unrecorded line, to report an intruder in a property so that the police would turn up there and discover a murder victim surrounded by a mass of incriminating evidence?’

‘That’s enough, Mr Mason,’ said the judge.

‘My Lord,’ I said respectfully, and sat down. It had been a minor victory only, in a day of unremitting bad news.

‘Court adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said the judge.

‘All rise.’

Eleanor didn’t come to Oxford on Monday night. In one way I was relieved, in another, disappointed. When I arrived back at the hotel from court I lay down on the bed, my head aching slightly from all the concentration. This slight headache soon developed into a full-on head-banger.