Meg’s best friend, Alison Stevens – who had helped her through that terrible time after Nick and Will died – had coincidentally done jury service herself a few months ago, and had been on a nasty child-abuse case, which had sickened her, all the more so as she’d got a one-year-old daughter – a late and unexpected addition to her family. And a work colleague had done jury service last year, which had been the trial of a conman who’d gone around Surrey posing as a gas-meter reader, stealing stuff from elderly people’s homes. Meg hoped she might get something less distressing than child abuse and more interesting than a phony gas-meter reader, today. And she had something to look forward to at the weekend. Colin’s Brother was running in a steeplechase at Plumpton Racecourse on Saturday, where he had won once before. She would be going along to cheer him on with the two partners Nick had shared the horse with. And to have a punt on him.

The music ended and she heard the voice of the presenter. ‘A big trial starts at Lewes Crown Court this morning,’ he said. ‘Brighton solicitor Terence Gready faces charges in connection with one of the most valuable drug hauls ever seized by Sussex Police. Six million pounds’ worth of the Class-A drug cocaine concealed in a vintage Ferrari at Newhaven Port in November last year.’

Meg listened intently. That sounded interesting. As she headed towards the station car park, she wondered if she was going to be on the Terence Gready jury. It would be great to be on something juicy, one she could be excited to tell Laura about – and that Laura would be keen to know all about – although she’d read the jury service bumph she’d been sent and had noted she was not permitted to speak about the trial or discussions between jurors to anyone, not even to close family. But hopefully she’d be able to give Laura a flavour at least.

Ten minutes later, as she crested the steep hill leading from the railway station to the High Street, panting with exertion, the imposing building of Lewes Crown Court loomed above her on the far side of the road. A disparate mass of people, some in suits, many in casual clothes, were in a queue that stretched along the pavement from the steps to the columned entrance. Several photographers and reporters milled around.

Meg walked behind a parked white van, and as she did so, heard the ping of an incoming WhatsApp message. Hopefully from Laura. She hurried across the road and joined the back of the queue, eager to check her phone. Like everyone else, she paid no attention to the white van, signed HALLIWELL PLUMBING with a motif of water spiralling down a drain, parked outside the elegant facade of the historic White Hart Hotel.