It was something her thoughts had returned to frequently during the long night. Occasional snatches of sleep freed her from the prison of her mind, but each time she woke, back to the reality, her terror worsened. In the end, sometime around 3 a.m., she’d given up altogether, gone down into the kitchen, made a mug of tea then sat at her computer. She was completely alone. She hadn’t heard from Laura in what seemed like an eternity.

On Death Row in prisons in America, appeals went on for years, didn’t they? Wouldn’t Primrose Brown stand up the moment the judge entered and say she was appealing? Was that how it worked? She had repeatedly tried googling the appeals process, but whether she was too tired, or unable to concentrate with her brain jumping all over the place, she kept, annoyingly, ending up on American websites, aware the legal system there differed in numerous aspects from the UK.

And every few minutes during the night, she’d picked up her phone, checking to make sure there wasn’t a voicemail from Laura from a call she’d somehow missed, or a text, or a WhatsApp. And each time after she’d done that she’d tried calling again.

Where was Laura? And, of course, Cassie? And what about Cassie’s parents? How was she going to explain things to them?

Where were they?

Where were the bastards keeping them?

She was startled by a voice whispering in her ear, accompanied by a sudden whiff of halitosis. ‘I hope he gets what he deserves.’

It was Maisy Waller, and she was nodding at Meg. Again, whispering, she said, ‘I know you did your best to make it a fair debate for us all, but it’s the right verdict. I think we all know that, don’t we?’

Meg gave her a wan smile and returned to her thoughts. She looked at the defence QC and her junior barrister, Sykes, and at Gready’s tall, silver-haired solicitor seated behind, along with two others who were, presumably, his assistants. The trio had been busy throughout the trial, passing notes between themselves, conferring, then whispering or passing notes either to Primrose Brown or her junior. She wondered what the solicitor was thinking. He looked a sly, hard man – was he going to pull a rabbit out of a hat at the last minute before sentencing? If he was, he gave no clue. He was leaning back in his chair, looking too relaxed for her liking, as if he were a member of the audience in a theatre, contentedly waiting for the curtain to rise on a show he was going to enjoy.