I prefer the term serial murderess but whatever.

‘Dean, who had a picture of his children inside his cab, was much loved by everyone who knew him—’

Cut to Sarah Bishopston, loving widow, washed-out skin, pinhole eyes, red hair crying out for a straightening tong, thousand-yard stare.

‘Lewis says in her confession that she offered Dean sex, which he refused, and it was then that she struck, stabbing him sixteen times. She watched him die on the cold, hard ground. Dean’s widow Sarah joins me now. Sarah – thank you for joining us today. Talk me through the moment when you were informed of Dean’s death. It must have been horrendous for you.’

Someone had clearly drunk their Stupid Bitch Juice that morning.

‘Yes, it was a horrendous morning,’ said Sarah, all monotone. ‘At the time it was a blur. It was so unexpected. We’ve always lived in Birmingham and we’d never even been burgled. We live in a safe neighbourhood. Dean sometimes had a few drunks in his cab but nothing too bad. I knew it was a risk him being out at night taking fares but he insisted he wanted the kids to have better Christmas presents that year.’

‘But that moment you found out, take us to that—’

‘I opened the front door and two people were standing there, a woman in a police uniform and a guy in a suit and they asked to come in. And I knew from their faces. And I held my breath. And when they said it, I collapsed.’

There was a series of increasingly stinging and interrogative questions all of which Sarah Bishopston answered without cunt-punching the woman into the wall, so fair fucks to her on that score.

‘What was the moment like when you saw his body in the morgue?’

‘How did the boys react when you told them Daddy was dead?’

‘How have you coped with being all alone ever since?’

The woman couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t feel anything. Not until she spoke about their youngest, Anthony.

‘He looks so much like his daddy, it scares me,’ she said. ‘And he asks for him every bedtime. And he cries for him in the night. I keep pictures of Dean all over the house – I’m afraid the kids will forget him. I’m afraid they don’t have enough memories.’

‘Tell me what kind of husband Dean was, Sarah.’

‘He was the love of my life. He’d always forget our anniversary and Valentine’s Day but he did a thousand romantic things. He’d write love notes and put them in my bag. Bring me flowers. We had so much in common – same sense of humour, same likes and dislikes. And we laughed so much – it was like we knew what the other one was thinking. We were in tune. Wherever he was, was home. I’ll never get over this, never.’