He was about to step into the shower when his job phone rang. Although not on-call today, he glanced at the screen and saw it was Glenn Branson. ‘Hi,’ he answered. ‘What’s up?’

‘Not sure if you’re going to like this or not, boss. Your good buddy, Edward Crisp, has been attacked in Lewes Prison. Stabbed in one eye with a ballpoint pen by a fellow inmate who apparently doesn’t like men who hurt women.’

‘Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Was the pen damaged?’

‘I didn’t ask, boss!’

‘How badly injured is he?’

‘He’s being taken under guard to Moorfields Eye Hospital in London. The prison doctor thinks he may be permanently blinded in that eye. So, it doesn’t look like the trial’s going to be starting tomorrow after all.’

‘How many officers are with him?’

‘Dunno, boss.’

‘Make sure he’s properly guarded, it could be another of his ruses to escape.’

‘Not from what I hear – the pen’s still stuck in his eye.’

‘Too bad the bastard didn’t push it further, into his twisted brain, and spare us all a lot of wasted time in court,’ Grace said.

‘You really are sick, aren’t you?’

‘Just a realist, matey. You’ll get there one day, after you’ve dealt with as many shitbags as I have. Keep me posted. Want me to send him a get well soon note?’

‘What a lovely gesture, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.’

‘So long as he can read it.’

45

Monday 13 May

Meg sat in her place on the wooden front row seat in the jury box, with tired eyes from two virtually sleepless nights.

The jurors had bundles of documents in front of them, with coloured, marked tabs sticking out. There was one bundle between two.

She looked up at the packed public gallery, where several people seemed to be staring at her and her fellow jurors, then at the defendant seated in the glassed-in dock, with a guard beside him. As she watched him, Gready suddenly looked straight in her direction. Was it her imagination or did he catch her eye?

She shivered. Had his henchmen already got the message to him? Juror no. 3, she’s your pal, she’s your get-out-of-jail-free card?

Quickly glancing away, she focused on the two rows of lawyers, some wigged and gowned, trying to work out which was the prosecution and which the defence. Several people sat in the press box over the far side. The judge was seated; she could see the top of his shiny blue chair, and the stalk of the black microphone on his bench, alongside a laptop, video monitor and conference telephone. The royal coat of arms, fixed high on the wall behind his seat, was a reminder of the gravitas of this place.