Meg’s attempt to debug the house yesterday – if indeed it was bugged at all – had not gone well. She found a ton of stuff on electronic surveillance devices on the internet, and watched several YouTube videos on how to detect them. Many of the latest bugging devices were almost microscopic in size, barely even visible to the untrained human eye. There was a range of detectors, at an affordable price, but the fastest delivery any were offering was two days. So instead, in the early hours of yesterday, she’d begun her own search, using the assortment of tools in Nick’s box and beginning with the most obvious places.

She removed the covers of the smoke detectors in each room, checking inside before replacing them; similarly the light fittings and all the electrical sockets and plugs. But after two hours, she’d started to realize the hopelessness of her task. She wasn’t tech-savvy enough to risk opening her computer, phone or the phone they had given her – and she wouldn’t have had a clue what to look for if she did.

There could be something concealed in one of the televisions, in the speakers in the ceiling, inside a radiator or in so many other potential hiding places. She’d seen bugs online that were even disguised as small pieces of electrical flex and computer cables. Some extra-powerful ones didn’t need to be in the house at all but could pick up conversations from outside in the garden. They could be hidden behind vents in her car. Anywhere.

She’d had some respite later in the day, when she was coaxed out of the house by her best friend, Alison Stevens, to share a picnic with her on the beach. They’d sat in glorious sunshine, demolishing a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc. Several times during the afternoon, the more the alcohol kicked in, she’d been increasingly tempted to confide in Ali.

Despite Alison constantly asking her what was wrong, sensing that something was clearly troubling her, Meg said nothing about the situation, not wanting to put her friend’s life at risk.

You tell any friend or go to the authorities and you will find them dead.

She thought about the indictments Terence Gready faced. These weren’t for parking infringements or shoplifting, or some other kind of minor misdemeanour. He was in the dock accused of being a drug dealer on an organized-crime scale – a criminal mastermind.

While they were closeted in the jury room last week, the retired cop, Roberts, had helpfully and somewhat gleefully informed his fellow jurors what the sentences could be for each of the counts if Gready was found guilty. And it was very clear to Meg from the way he spoke that he’d already made up his mind that the defendant was guilty of the entire lot, and faced being locked up and having the key thrown away.