She jumped up like a startled rabbit. No need to be nervous, she tried to calm herself. You are here out of civic duty. Relax. Enjoy! ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to project, but the word seemed to catch in her throat. She was blushing as she walked the short distance to the jury box, well aware that every eye in the court was on her at this moment.

She took her place next to the man who smelled, not unpleasantly, of aftershave, unsure where to look. She shot a glance first at the judge, who was studying his computer screen, then at the dock at the defendant, a wretched, miserable-looking man who didn’t look like he was capable of committing any crime. He caught her sympathetic eye and gave a wan smile back.

The next name was called. ‘Hari Singh.’

A tubby Indian man in a smart suit and tie and with a nervous, almost apologetic smile, made his way to the box, seating himself beside Meg.

Another name was called and an instant later the older woman she had exchanged a smile with earlier sat down on the bench.

‘Maisy Waller.’

‘Yes.’ It came out as a timid squeak. A tight-faced, terrified-looking mouse of a woman in her fifties with limp grey hair and wearing an old-fashioned floral-print summer frock followed, approaching the jury box as if it were a cage full of lions, then almost tiptoed to her place.

Next up was Harold Trout, a rather intellectual-looking man in his early seventies, in a tweed suit and a golf club tie.

The litany of names continued, whilst Meg looked around the court, trying to figure out what the roles were of everyone present, occasionally shooting glances at the dock, but each time quickly looking away as the defendant was staring directly at them. She glanced up at the sea of faces in the nearly full public gallery, almost all of whom were looking down towards her and her fellow jurors. In the front row, she clocked a denim-jacketed, ponytailed man, who looked like a rough diamond, sitting a little stiffly and too far away for her to have noticed the pen clipped to his breast pocket. He seemed to be taking a particularly keen interest in them all, and she wondered if he was perhaps a relative of the defendant.

When the two rows were filled, three potential jurors remained behind, looking like lost little Billy-No-Mates.

Maureen Sapsed then turned to the jury box. ‘Members of the jury, the defendant, Terence Arthur Gready, stands charged on this indictment containing six counts.’

She proceeded to read out all of the counts in full, before pausing for a moment to glance down at her notes. Then she looked at the jury again. ‘To each count the defendant has pleaded not guilty, and it is your charge to say, having heard all the evidence, whether he is guilty or not.’