Priest smiled and she smiled back. She had an infectious smile. He remembered seeing it for the first time when she had walked into the interview room and presented a CV bursting with commendations, awards and an Oxford first. Priest’s policy was to only ever ask one interview question. None of the pro forma questions and aptitude tests candidates were subjected to in the recruitment processes of the supposed elite practices – the so-called Magic Circle firms. Priest found the best measure wasn’t something Freud had conjured up. It was his gut.

‘If you were me, how would you conduct this interview?’

Priest had laid out his only interview question to another fresh-faced candidate and sat back, waiting for the usual diatribe of executive bollocks which might include repeating large sections of the About Us section of the Priest & Co. website or, if he was lucky, a Google-assembled analysis of the reform of conditional fee arrangements in personal injury work.

To his surprise, Georgie Someday had met his gaze and spoken without a hint of sarcasm.

‘I wouldn’t. Asking me questions isn’t going to tell you anything about me you won’t get from your receptionist. That’s why your candidates have to turn up an hour early.’

Priest had faltered. She had smiled awkwardly and, without being able to stop himself, he had smiled back. Awkwardly.

Later, as he had poured over the headnote of a Court of Appeal authority, Maureen, his chain-smoking receptionist, had poked her head around the door and directed a series of gruffly constituted words in unambiguous tones at him which had landed Georgie her training contract.

‘You better bloody hire that girl, Priest,’ she had said. ‘Your tea’s in the kitchen.’

‘You seem distracted,’ Georgie observed as they negotiated through the jumble of lawyers and clients cluttering up the High Court entrance. ‘You know: even more than usual.’

He dismissed her. ‘No, no. This is just as it is, Someday. Follow me.’

She took him by the arm and was about to lead him away from the court when a voice stopped them. Priest turned and saw a small man hunched up against the side of the court, a cigarette stuck to his lip. His hair was grey and wiry and his skin had the purple stain left by years of alcohol and fags.

‘Excuse me?’

He immediately regretted having spoken so when it became clear that the man who had addressed them was Dominique Elias. He must have slipped out at some point for a smoke after the cameras had packed up.

‘I said, I wonder if you get a kick out of what you do, Mr Priest?’ Elias croaked.

Priest hesitated and felt Georgie tug on his arm, but something stopped him from doing what he should do and move on.

‘Sorry, Mr Elias. I can’t talk to you. Professional rules. You know how it is.’