Charlie Priest knew a lot about disaster management in litigation. Rule number one was to preserve the illusion that no disaster existed. Nothing was more fragile than the short period of time between parties shuffling into court and the moment the chambers door swung open and the judge manifested himself or, in this case, herself. Trials were made and broken in that vacuum where time stood still. The slightest breeze could be enough to dislodge the nerve of a witness or an advocate; a case that took years to prepare could be undone in seconds.

So Priest ignored the burning sensation developing in the pit of his stomach and announced his entrance into the courtroom by letting the ancient wooden door deliberately crash against its frame, which drew a turning of heads from the occupants of the front bench. Even the journalists lowered their phones to see who had disturbed the calm.

‘Dickie.’ Priest nodded to the QC as he joined Okoro. Hagworth neither returned the gesture nor rejected it but stared curiously at him from behind a pair of round glasses perched on his crooked nose.

Unimpressed, Okoro hadn’t moved other than to look up from behind the bundle he was holding. He gave Priest a look that suggested, in no uncertain terms, that he regarded his unpunctuality with considerable annoyance. When Priest reached across to place a file on the table Okoro whispered in his principal’s ear.

‘Where in the name of Jesus have you been, Priest?’

‘Funeral.’

‘A what?’

He placed a reassuring hand on Okoro’s shoulder and turned to the three bemused faces sitting behind him. Shaking each hand in turn he addressed the oily-haired man sitting on the edge of the bench.

‘Tomas, how are you doing?’ Priest asked, smiling.

‘We were expecting you a little earlier but—’

‘Just checking a few things for you but all done now. Gail, hi. Karl, love that tie. Listen, Tomas, have you heard from Simeon?’

‘No.’