It was nearing ten o clock in the morning, the hour when the stark modern Oxford Crown Court would begin its day in earnest. There was a flurry of activity in the central atrium between the several courts that led off to left and right, and which would soon devour the mass of gathered humanity. The concourse with its long rows of seats, could have been mistaken for a regional airport lounge - there was even a glass-fronted boutique-style cafeteria called 'Rumpole of the Bailey'. (The courts are not without their sense of humour).

But this was also a criminal court, and the evidence was not hard to find - the dashing omnipresence of the black robed clerks, and seated all about, the wigged barristers in huddled whispered conversations with their anxious clients, who would soon be facing the full rigour of the Law. A mobile phone rang near me, and one of these clients, a large bouncer-type of about thirty in his new football-manager style suit, answered it guardedly. He too had not lost his sense of humour - his mobile tone was the Inspector Morse theme - appropriate as this was after all Inspector Morse's court.

Given the notorious Oxford traffic, I had arrived in very good time to make sure I did not miss seeing sentence being passed on the pestilent Finch. But more than this, I just wanted to see for the first time with my very own eyes, this phantom serial burglar who had caused such havoc on the canals over so many years, including numerous break-ins to boats moored at my own marina. I had waited for a long time for this, and I wasn't taking chances.

I even had time for a coffee in that Rumpole cafeteria, where I noticed more barristers, who seemed anxiously reading their briefs, whilst hastily devouring bacon butties. I was minded of those lines in Gilbert & Sullivan's Iolanthe 'Ere I go in to Court, I shall read my brief through, said I to myself said I.' Nothing had changed in a hundred and fifty years. Indeed I began humming the appropriate opening lines of their 'Trial by Jury':

Hark the hour of ten is sounding!
Hearts with anxious fears are bounding!
Hall of Justice crowds surrounding,
Breathing hope and fear.

Soon, at the very same time, the operetta for real would begin.

As a spectator, finding out anything about the goings-on at a court is always somewhat hit and miss. I was therefore reassured when I saw on the Court notice board:

As seems standard court procedure, there were two other matters listed for hearing in Court 2 at the same time. So when we would be called was a matter of speculation, and no one could tell me. But at least we would be called at some stage, and somewhere in the basement Finch was waiting in his cell.

Now with only ten minutes to go, an announcement came over the public address; 'Defence counsel for Finch report to Court Reception immediately.' It was repeated again, and then twice again a few minutes later. Then a gowned court clerk, a short thin woman in her forties came scurrying amongst us. 'Is there a defence for Mr Finch?' she called out a number of times, to the crows' nest of barristers who seemed to take no notice of her - concerned as they were with picking over their own carry-on. I felt I had to do something, so I went and told her that Mr Finch had always conducted his own defence, and I suspected he would be doing the same today.

She seemed startled by my reply. Was I his solicitor? Then her words stumbled as she noticed my blue Braunston Marina jersey, complete with logo. Who was I, and how did I know? I explained all briefly, and suggested she confirm this with Mr Finch, who no doubt was down in the cells. I did not want an adjournment on this account. She thanked me for my information, and then scurried away with the speed with which she had arrived.

The big event of the day was the hearing relating to a major Oxford drugs bust, which the police had imaginatively code-named 'Operation Lambretta' - perhaps there was an Italian Connection. Once the case was called, it seemed to empty much of the concourse, including our Morse theme friend. Court 2 had proceeded with one of the other listed cases, and I noticed that I was now the only person left sitting directly outside that court. The clerk whom I had spoken to, happened to come out of the court, and seeing me there alone, suggested I might as well go in, to save her coming out again. There seemed no sign of anyone involved in the third item listed for hearing, and I appeared to be the only member of the public concerned with 'the matter of Anthony Ernest Finch'.
It was my first venture ever into a crown court - in my fifty five years to date I had lived free of fighting wars or doing jury service, or having any other cause to come to a crown court. What I transpired to be watching was a pre-trial review of a female accounts clerk who was charged with defrauding her employers, a medium sized Oxford business, of some £10,000. She was not required to sit in the dock at this stage, and was in the public gallery at the back only a yard from me and on the same bench. She was about 28, tall, semi-obese, with short hair, and well-bitten-short and fat ring-less fingers. Her clothing comprised a mauve designer romper suit. As far from us as possible sat two men in their early fifties in dull old fashioned suits, who must have been representatives of her erstwhile or present employer. Perhaps the good lady had not resigned, and was suspended on full pay until proven guilty; and if not, would be back with a case for re-instatement - and then accept a fat pay-off for not doing so, a sort of Passing Go in real life.

The centre of the court seemed another world with the protagonists dressed in their ancient attire, and performing a timeless ritual of pageant and procedure, which the public had long ceased to believe in or fear. The defence and prosecution barristers in their wigs and gowns were arguing interminably over when they would both be ready for the trial. Finally they agreed on three months time as being the earliest, because of the need to exchange and examine piles of prosecution documents - even though it transpired that these barristers were members of the same Oxford chambers, and thus worked in the same building. The judge, who was no doubt used to these tortuous legal procedures in the name of Justice, indifferently agreed and made his order. 'Case adjourned. All Stand.' The judge then left the court - by his private exit stage left. With a smirk I could clearly hear, the accused female then left court, free for another three months, when at enormous public expense her case would be heard, and she would no doubt get a slap-wrist suspended sentence. In the meantime she would live off benefit and cream cakes.

The court quickly emptied of all but myself, a young female reporter from the Oxford Examiner in the row in front of me, the lady-clerk, a couple of officials and the prosecution barrister of the previous case, who it transpired was to conduct this one as well. The clerk stood to her feet and said in a loud voice, towards the back of the almost empty court, 'In the matter of Anthony Ernest Finch!' A door I had failed to notice at the back of the court, to what transpired to be the recessed dock, was opened from the other side.

In came a private security guard of about thirty in his number one dress, followed by the villain I had waited nearly fifteen years to see. Finch was everything I had expected – I recognised him immediately from the 'wanted' posters – the short, wiry man with an upside-down pear-shaped head, balding flaxen hair and those small dark staring eyes I had looked at so often in the police photograph.

And yet he seemed none of it. After four months on remand, with good food and plenty of rest, and time well-spent in the prison gym, the sixty one year old vagrant tramp was now well groomed and smartly turned out in high-street designer casuals. I wondered if, freshly laundered, these were the clothes he was arrested in, as it was his regular habit to steal clothes from boats, as needs must. I thought of that line from Shakespeare's profound play on the inadequacies of justice, Measure for Measure, 'Every true man's apparel fits your thief.'

I had hoped to see Finch at least handcuffed to his guard, given his previous escapes from the police, when trying to arrest him. But that day he was good as gold. He and his young guard almost seemed like friends. How could this be the same man that had caused so much mayhem and led the police and justice system on such a song and dance, and for so long?