They further were able to show that fresh bloody footprints at the scene matched both of Mr Mitchell’s wellingtons.

I did manage to extract a small victory for our side by getting the forensic expert to concede that none of Mr Mitchell’s DNA had been discovered in Barlow’s residence, on the murder weapon, or on the deceased’s body. Furthermore, I also got them both to agree that, even though Barlow’s DNA had been found on Mr Mitchell’s boots and in his car, this did not prove that Mr Mitchell had been wearing his boots at the time, nor driving his car at any point during that afternoon.

In re-examination by the prosecution, however, the first expert did state that traces of Mr Mitchell’s DNA had been found inside his own boots, as you might have expected, but that no other person’s DNA had also been found there. It didn’t exactly further our argument that someone else must have been wearing Mitchell’s wellies at the time of the murder, but it didn’t destroy it completely either. I managed partly to salvage the situation by getting the second expert to agree that someone could wear a pair of rubber boots without leaving any DNA trace in them, especially someone who was keen not to do so.

The final witness of the day was the pathologist who had done the post-mortem examination of Scot Barlow’s body, and his evidence wasn’t for the squeamish. The two curved metal prongs of the pitchfork had not, as I had imagined, passed through the rib cage and then into the heart, but had been thrust upwards underneath the ribs, through the diaphragm, one of them entering the heart from below. The five-feet-long double-pronged murder weapon was produced as an exhibit. It looked huge and menacing in the stillness of the courtroom with its ten-inch-long thin, curved, and very sharp metal prongs glinting in the light. The pathologist was invited by the prosecution counsel to demonstrate, on the floor of the court, the upward thrusting action that would have been needed to cause the injuries sustained by Barlow’s body. It was a moment of high drama and I noticed some members of the jury shuddering with revulsion. The pathologist explained that a single strike had been sufficient to cause death within just a few minutes with only moderate bleeding from the two wounds, and also a little from the victim’s mouth.

The bleeding had not been so moderate, I thought, that both of Mitchell’s wellington boots hadn’t been able to walk in it.

The pathologist conceded that considerable force would have been needed to cause the fatal injury but, as he said, probably less than that needed to go through the rib cage, where there would have been the risk of one of the fork’s prongs hitting and bouncing off a rib. The prosecution counsel then established without difficulty that a fit man of thirty-three, especially one who was a professional sportsman, would have easily had the strength required to deliver the fatal blow, even if he did only stand five foot six inches tall in his socks.

‘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.