I watched families come and go, crying, ashen-faced, complacent. I watched the defendants who swaggered and those who’d bought a new suit for the occasion. I watched those shaven red-raw for the judge, white shirts still showing the creases from their M&S packet. I watched nervous girlfriends called to give evidence. One tall thin girl stuck in my mind, biting her nails as she waited to speak in an assault case. I watched the innocent and the guilty, and try as I might to discern which was which, I rarely could. Did people wonder the same about me?

Each night after court adjourned, Ruth would patiently run through things with me. I read the witness statements. The Crown were alleging that James had known about the heroin; it had entered the UK inside a massive furniture shipment. They said that James had long been part of the team to mastermind the operation. The drugs had been inside hollowed-out furniture – garden tables, statues – and they believed that he had used the clubs as a front.

Another man was on trial too, a British-Pakistani called Saquib Baheev. I vaguely remembered James mentioning a Saquib, but the fuzzy little head-shot they showed on the one news bulletin I saw meant nothing to me. The prosecution alleged the two men had worked in conjunction with each other, but James had made the initial contact. There was never any mention of Hadi Kattan.

‘He’s slipped the net on this one,’ Ruth had said when I pressed her. ‘Even if he is involved – and the CPS have no evidence apparently to say he is – I’d guess he’s being protected by someone. I don’t know. We have no extradition treaty with Iran. Even if he was charged, they’d never be able to bring him in.’

Danny’s words echoed in my head: diplomatic immunity. He was like a phantom, Hadi Kattan, like the Scarlet Pimpernel. They seek him here, they seek him there. Somewhere, someone was protecting him. I just didn’t know why.

And then it was my turn. I took the stand on the Friday morning, feeling under-prepared, trembling with nerves. I’d tried so hard to be calm and collected but I even fumbled my swearing in. It was the first time I’d seen James in a week; he looked thin and anxious as we smiled at each other shakily across the room. And then I looked at the other defendant seated next to him and I felt nausea rise quickly in my gullet.

Saquib Baheev was Zack from Albion Manor: the heavy who had been part of Kattan’s entourage.

Cold sweat broke out under my arms; I grasped the card I was reading from so tight I left shiny fingerprints on it. Saquib looked over at me and I could have sworn he winked.