“And what does the new one call her?”

“Not Meggie, that’s for sure! Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s meatloaf for lunch and I don’t want to miss out.”

For a few moments I let myself dream that I could put Mrs. Patterson on the stand and make her swear on the Bible that it was Megan who was standing in the courtroom. But the judge would never allow me to call a witness who barely knew what day of the week it was, and the jury would dismiss her testimony as the ramblings of a batty old woman. My trip has been another waste of time from the case’s perspective. Megan really is turning out to be far cleverer than I’d thought.

There has been a last-minute change. The Crown Prosecution Service had given the case to a lawyer who I knew to be something less than fully able. And that was being generous. But he went on an “essential business trip” to one of the smaller Greek islands and brought a new variant of the virus back with him; there was an item on the ten o’clock news that called him a “carrier” after twenty people on his return flight home had also been diagnosed. He hadn’t known he was pre-diabetic, although the extra thirty pounds he was carrying was pretty obvious. Idiot had refused the vaccine. With his health hanging in the balance, a new prosecutor had been sourced. Luke Berryman. I should have known it would be him. We have never come face to face in the courtroom, but his reputation precedes him. One of those “the law was my calling” and “I just want to make the world a little safer” types. He looks honest and harmless, like butter wouldn’t melt. Juries trust him. Judges love him. I fucking hate him. Behind that holier-than-thou exterior is the heart of a man who will stoop to any depths to get a conviction.

“Bad?” Chris is sitting opposite me, his face like a mask as he watches me stroke the cover of the file lying on the table between us. Yesterday I received the last submissions from Luke, the final details of the case he was planning to bring against my client.

And the final nail in the coffin. Luke Berryman is requesting for the jury to be sequestered for the duration. Some crock of shit about them not being “unduly influenced” by the media circus. Everyone knows that when a jury is sequestered, they are much faster in their judgment; even at the best of times, they’re keen to get home to their lives. But after the year we’ve had, and with restrictions finally easing, the jurors will not appreciate being locked up again.

Derek is standing at the door to my office, but he does not look nervous. He looks me straight in the eye as he says, “Jemima is dating the oldest son of Nathanial Dolan.”

“I know.” I motion to the chair in front of me and notice his gaze flicker to the Glenfiddich behind me. It’s only one o’clock in the afternoon but who am I to judge? I pour us both a large measure and wait for him to tell me the next part. He has a plan, I can feel it.