I gather my files and walk away, leaving his solicitor to organise his client.

Most people rush off after court, hailing taxis left, right, and centre and vanishing back to their offices. However, I’ve always enjoyed a good walk. It lets me stretch out and clear my mind. The day is sunny and warm, and I turn my face into the soft breeze, welcoming how it ruffles my hair. Wearing a court wig might look good on the television, but they’re bloody hot in a stuffy courtroom.

I walk briskly along, dodging pedestrians and then entering Lincoln’s Inn, where my chambers are situated.

The small park in the centre is busy with groups of people sitting around on benches chatting and eating lunch. Most of them are in suits and have come from the chambers in the graceful old buildings that line the grassy square.

I look up at my chambers as they come into view. I get the same feeling coming towards the three-storey Georgian building as others get with their own homes. I suppose the chambers are my home. I certainly spend more time here than at my flat. I look at the wisteria climbing the outside of the building and make a mental note that it’s getting out of control.

Carl, the senior clerk, is outside leaning on the cast-iron railings and puffing on a cigarette.

“You really should pack those in,” I say virtuously.

He shakes his head. “And then where would we be, Mr Carlsen? I’d rip someone’s head off, and you’d have to defend me.”

“I knew you preferred me,” I say, whipping past the long board outside the door with my name second from the top. Magnus Carlsen QC. “I won’t rub it in with Ms Peterson.”

“Yes, you will, sir,” he says, chuckling as he comes up next to me.

I hand him the file from under my arm. He loosens the pink ribbon and opens the packet of papers, making an approving face at the Not Guilty written across the first page.

“Well done, sir.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure I’ll be very popular with the constabulary after this.”

“Not your problem, sir. We all need a defence. It was the right call.”

“I’m not sure the victim’s family will think that,” I say sombrely. Then I dismiss the thought and stride through the rooms that are as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I pass wood-panelled rooms with huge comfortable sofas and chairs, and offices filled with the busy sounds of chatter and phones ringing.

Finally, I enter my office and close the door. The afternoon sun filters through the tall Georgian barred window, falling on my oak desk and playing over the multicoloured files and box folders that are spread across the surface.