“So, as widely predicted, financier Marcus Huxley-Browne, son of the former trade minister Sir Robert Huxley-Browne, has been found guilty on multiple counts of fraud and insider trading. Sir Robert, who’s believed to be suffering with dementia, was not in court to hear the verdict, but we’re expecting a statement from the family lawyer in the next few minutes.”

As the reporter continued to speak, a still shot of Marcus filled the screen, and Claudia felt so sickened and afraid that it was almost as if he was right there in the room with them. He was a strikingly handsome man, she’d never deny that, with his unruly fair hair, flirtatious smile, and smooth features, but even in this shot where he was supposed to appear nothing but friendly she could see the arrogance, the underlying cruelty that governed him.

“. . . although other arrests have been expected since Huxley-Browne was first taken from his home in West London,” the reporter was saying, as they cut back to him, “none have so far materialized. However, a spokesperson for the Serious Fraud Office has made it clear that their investigation does not end here. As we know, all sorts of rumors have dogged Huxley-Browne and many of his colleagues in the City for several years, but perhaps the most sinister are those concerning gangland connections. If—I stress if—any of these are true, it’s not likely Huxley-Browne will be helping police with their inquiries anytime soon.”

“They’re true,” Claudia muttered.

“Was his wife in court today?” a voice from the studio asked.

Claudia’s heart turned over and she’d have stopped the video there if she hadn’t felt masochistically compelled to know what was said.

“No, she wasn’t,” the reporter replied. “She hasn’t been seen since the start of the trial, and all attempts to reach her today have so far failed.”

Up came a shot of the Kensington house surrounded by media, and Claudia could only feel thankful that she and Jasmine had managed to get out when they had. Please don’t let them mention anything else about me, she prayed inwardly. Please, please.

To her relief they didn’t, so for this report at least there were no shots of her.

A rangy, stooped man with sharp features and thinning gray hair was now ready to give a statement: the family lawyer.

“Today has shown us what a travesty of justice looks like,” he declared, raising his lawyerly voice to be heard. It was hard to tell how many cameras and microphones were trained on him, but his piercing eyes found Sky News as though he somehow knew it was the channel she’d be watching. “We will not rest,” he said, looking straight at her, “until this verdict is overturned and my client is once again free to resume his family life.”