That’s how it had played out in the papers. And she could do nothing about it. Reputations and lives could be ruined by one story, and she had dozens about her in circulation. Sometimes it was too much and she sat in her office chair and put her head against her desk, just for a moment, looking for some respite from all the unfairness. A breather.

In those moments, she heard her mother’s voice. ‘You’re doing everything you can. You always did.’

She wished Wendy could be here. She’d died too young. Her mother belonged to the generation that didn’t kick up a fuss if you weren’t feeling too well. By the time they found the cancer it was too late. Kelly sat at the wheel and called the only person that she could think of. Her only place of safety.

‘Dad,’ she said.

‘I’m at the courthouse,’ Ted said. He had good reason to be. It wasn’t that he was there because he was protecting his daughter from the press, though he wanted to do that. He also happened to be the senior coroner for the north-west of England, and he’d followed the trial keenly, giving evidence as the prosecution’s main expert witness.

‘Can you meet me in the usual place?’ she asked.

‘I’m already waiting for you.’

‘Journalists?’ she asked.

‘None yet. You’re clear.’

Ted finished the call and she gathered her things. She carried a small handbag. Usually, her work uniform would be more casual. If she wasn’t attending to relatives of the deceased, or making an appearance at mind-numbingly tedious meetings at Carlton House with her chief constable, then she opted for comfortable trousers and a T-shirt, under a loosely tailored jacket, with pumps. Always ready to run. She carried a backpack full of kit she might need, should she have to move at short notice. But the legal team had instructed her otherwise for the duration of the trial. They told her to dress up. Look the part.

She felt foolish but had got used to the tight skirts and silk blouses, as well as the tiny handbag. She wore more make-up and brushed her hair. The first time she’d gazed into the mirror looking like the perfect prosecution witness, she’d laughed out loud. Millie said she looked like a ball-breaker. Josie, her teenage stepdaughter, said she looked hot. Lizzie giggled.

She felt like a twat.

Her heels clicked on the pavement and she rounded the final corner which led to the back way into the courthouse. She was almost at the door when a journo spotted her and ran after her.

‘Kelly Porter, can you forgive your partner for betraying you?’ A mic was shoved in her face. It was sensationalist bullshit. She rounded on the woman.

‘Fuck off.’