The Judge, Mr Justice Melrose Deakins, listened to McQuiddan’s lightly accented Scottish voice attentively.

‘Your Honour, we have here two people of the highest repute. And yet today they stand accused of two murders committed over forty years ago.

‘One of the so-called murder victims is in fact on public record as having committed suicide. How can you not grant these two people bail? Briony Cavanagh is an esteemed member of her community, she has been an active charity fundraiser, a businesswoman widely respected. Thomas Lane is similarly regarded. Neither has ever been in trouble with the police. How my learned friend here can oppose bail...’

‘Mr McQuiddan, I have listened to you with interest, and all I can say to you is, Miss Cavanagh and Mr Lane, pillars of the community, fundraising charity workers and otherwise exemplary citizens notwithstanding, are here charged with murder, not traffic offences. Murder is a heinous crime, and not one to be taken lightly. In view of the gravity of the charges, I have no alternative but to refuse them bail.’

Briony’s face dropped, and Tommy closed his eyes tightly.

McQuiddan shook his head dramatically and stood up once more, his black robes billowing around him.

‘Your Honour, I really must protest...’

Mr Justice Deakins held up one scrawny hand for silence. ‘I think we have heard quite enough protesting from you for one day, Mr McQuiddan.’

Outside, when the news was broken, DI Limmington smiled and chalked the first round up to himself.

Briony walked into Holloway Prison in a daze. She had been so sure she was going to get bail, the decision of the judge had shocked her to the core. As she sat in the prison van between two policewomen she felt a plummeting inside herself. The bang of the steel doors behind her as she entered through the side door of the prison reverberated in her head.

The elder of the policewomen helped her down from the van. ‘Come on, love.’

Briony smiled woodenly. She would not show them that she was frightened. If they put her away for a long time ...

She swallowed down the terror and walked unsteadily through to the prisoners’ reception. This room was dark, a window letting in the minimum of light due to its reinforced glass. She felt a pair of arms divest her roughly of her fur coat. Without it and her handbag she felt suddenly very vulnerable. This couldn’t be happening to her. This was all some kind of mistake.

A woman called Marilyn, a prison officer for twenty years, grinned at her nastily.

‘Come on, darlin’, let’s get you stripped, washed, suited and booted. Then we’ll escort you to your cell. You’re sharing with two bitches who should suit you right down to the ground.’