‘It isn’t about winning. She’s lost too. Eve Harding is going to prison; isn’t that enough?’

Hicks narrows his eyes at me, indignant because I don’t understand why he’s so upset. He’s right, I don’t. Is it because she’s got one over on him? Compounded by the fact she’s female? What does it matter? It isn’t a game. Eve’s been shafted by the system that was supposed to protect her. If Ian was her attacker, and Alice’s too, there may be countless others we haven’t connected him to yet. Maybe he got what he deserved?

Hicks huffs and turns back to his computer, hammering his mouse loudly and he thunders through the online file.

‘There must be something,’ he mutters.

I grit my teeth and turn back to my screen. My mouse hovers over the delete button, my brain whirring. What would a jury do? I can imagine how a prosecutor would tear her apart on the stand. She’d be sent to prison for the rest of her life. Maybe it’s time for a change of career after all? I delete the email from James and the CCTV from Guy, then empty the deleted folder.

‘Our time’s up on this one. She’s practically out of the door. It’s in the hands of the CPS now. All we can do is build the case to secure a conviction.’

‘She’ll be out in four years, or roll over on a suspended sentence,’ Hicks snaps without bothering to turn round.

I smile and breathe a sigh of relief. I’m counting on it.

Saturday 27 January 2018

When I returned to the table, composed and focus intact, my steak was waiting. Ian was measuring the cleanliness of his fork. I could see he didn’t like to be kept waiting and enjoyed the flicker of irritation in his eyes as I took my seat. He was trying hard to control it.

‘I’m sorry, there was a queue,’ I said, rolling my eyes for effect.

He smiled, lips pressed tightly together and picked up his knife and fork. He could have started without me, but good manners, the gentleman in him, didn’t permit it. The different sides to Ian were extreme. It was odd. I’d read somewhere that most sexual assaults were more about power than carnal desire. He fitted that theory; he was an obvious control freak.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

I was holding my knife and fork mid-air but hadn’t attempted to cut my steak yet.

‘Oh nothing. How’s your steak?’ I cut a slice and popped it into my mouth. It wasn’t a spaghetti carbonara, but it was melt in the mouth tender. My taste buds kicked into gear and hunger pangs niggled my sides.

‘Fantastic, don’t you think?’