‘But how?’ she said.

I told her. Some of it she knew, and some she didn’t. I spoke for more than an hour with her listening intently to what I said.

Only after I stopped did she ask me the big question. ‘Why don’t you just take all this to the police?’ she said.

‘Because I want my day in court,’ I said. And I didn’t want to have to admit that I had been intimidated for so long without saying anything. I valued my career.

I told her what I proposed to do on Monday morning when the trial resumed.

‘Just as long as we are both still alive on Monday morning,’ she said.

Now, for a change, she was frightening me.

CHAPTER 20

‘All rise,’ called the court clerk.

The judge entered from his chambers, bowed slightly towards us and took his seat behind the bench. Everyone else then sat down. The court was now in session.

‘Mr Mason,’ said the judge.

‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said, rising.

‘Still no sign of Sir James Horley?’ he asked with raised eyebrows.

‘No, My Lord,’ I said.

‘And you, and your client, are happy to continue with the case for the defence with you acting alone?’ he said.

‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said. Steve nodded at the judge from the dock.

‘I don’t need to remind you of what I said about that not being grounds for an appeal,’ said the judge.

‘I understand, My Lord,’ I said.

He nodded, as if to himself, and consulted a sheet of paper on the bench in front of him.

‘Are your witnesses present?’ he asked.

‘As far as I am aware, My Lord,’ I replied. I hadn’t actually been outside into the waiting area to check, but Bruce Lygon seemed happy they were ready.

In fact, I hadn’t been outside at all since last Friday.

At ten thirty on Friday evening the telephone in the hotel room had rung. ‘I thought I said no calls,’ I had complained to the hotel operator when I’d answered it.

‘Yes, Mr Mason, we are very sorry to disturb you,’ she had said. ‘But we have your nephew on the telephone, and he’s frantic to get in touch with you. I’m very sorry, but he tells me your elderly father has had a fall and that he’s been taken to hospital.’

‘Did you confirm to my nephew that I was here?’ I’d asked her.

‘Of course,’ she’d said. ‘Shall I put him through?’

‘Thank you,’ I’d said. There had been a click or two, but no one had been on the line. Trent had already gained the information he had wanted. Thereafter Eleanor and I had not left the room for the whole weekend, not even for an exercise period in the old prison yard, although we had made up for it with plenty of exercise in bed. We had ordered room service for every meal and had instructed the staff to ensure that they were completely alone when it was delivered. They had probably thought we were totally mad, but they had been too polite to say so, to us at least.

I had called Bruce to discuss the question of how to get safely to court on Monday morning. Without telling him exactly why I was concerned, I explained to him that I really didn’t want to run into either of my two witnesses before they were called and I needed some secure transport from the hotel to the court buildings. He had come up with the ingenious idea of getting one of the private security companies to collect me in a prison transfer van. It transpired that Bruce was a friend of the managing director, and he had thought the idea was a great hoot and had been happy to oblige, for a fee of course.

So, at nine o’clock on Monday morning, Eleanor and I had moved as quickly as my crutches would allow along the hanging gallery of ‘A’ wing, down in the lift and out through the hotel lobby. We had gone from the front door of the hotel, across six feet of paving, straight into the waiting white box-like vehicle with its high dark-tinted square windows, while Bruce had stood by on guard. Some of the hotel staff had watched this piece of theatre with wide eyes. I was sure that they must believe we were either escaped lunatics or convicts, or both.

Needless to say, Julian Trent had been nowhere to be seen, but it was better to be safe than dead.

Our prison van had then delivered us right into the court complex through the security gates round the back, just as it would have done if we had been defendants on remand. We had emerged into court number 1 along the cell corridor beneath, and then via the steps up to the dock. Eleanor, who had called the equine hospital to say she wasn’t coming in to work, now sat right behind me in court, next to Bruce.

‘Very well,’ said the judge. He nodded at the court usher, who went to fetch the jury. As we waited for them, I looked around the courtroom with its grand paintings of past High Sheriffs of Oxfordshire. On the wall above the judge there was the royal crest with its motto, HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE, written around the central crest. Evil to him who evil thinks was a translation from Old French, the medieval language of the Norman and Plantagenet kings of England. How about ‘Evil to him that evil does’, I thought. That would be much more appropriate in this place.

The press box was busy but not quite so full as it had been at the start of the trial the week before. Public interest had waned a little as well, and only about half of the thirty or so of the public seats were occupied, with Mr and Mrs Barlow senior sitting together in the front row, as ever.

The five men and seven women of the jury filed into the court and took their seats to my left in the jury box. They all looked quite normal. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, professional people and manual workers, all of them thrown together into a panel by simple chance. There was nothing unusual or extraordinary about any one of them, but collectively they had to perform the extraordinary task of determining the facts, and deciding if the defendant was guilty or not. They’d had no training for the task, and they had no instruction manual to follow. Our whole legal system was reliant on such groups of people, who had never met one another prior to the trial, doing the ‘right’ thing and together making exceptional decisions on questions far beyond their regular daily experiences. It was one of the greatest strengths of our system, but also, on occasion, one of its major weaknesses, especially in some fraud trials where the evidence was complex and intricate, often beyond the understanding of the common man.

I looked at the members of this jury one by one, and hoped they had been well rested by four days away from the court. They might need to be alert and on the ball to follow what would happen here today, and to understand its significance.

‘Mr Mason,’ said the judge, looking down at me from the bench.

It was now time.

‘Thank you, My Lord,’ I said, rising. ‘The defence calls…’ Suddenly my mouth was dry and my tongue felt enormous. I took a sip from my glass of water. ‘The defence calls Mr Roger Radcliffe.’

Roger Radcliffe was shown into court by the usher, who directed him to the witness box. He was asked to give his full name. ‘Roger Kimble Radcliffe,’ he said confidently. He was then given a New Testament to hold in his left hand and asked to read out loud from a card. ‘I swear by almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’

One could but hope, I thought.

I stood up but, before I had a chance to say anything, Radcliffe turned to the judge.

‘Your Honour,’ he said. ‘I have no idea why I have been asked to come here today. I knew Scot Barlow only by reputation. I have never spoken to him and he has never ridden any of my horses. Your honour, I’m a very busy man running my own company and I resent having to waste my time coming to court.’

He stood bolt upright in the witness box looking at the judge with an air of someone who had been greatly inconvenienced for no good reason. His body language was clearly asking the judge to allow him to get back to his business.