Okoro got to his feet with caution, every second he delayed might be precious. Behind him, he heard The Real Byte staff shuffling around. Panic was starting to set in, despite Priest’s warning to them about remaining poker-faced. Across the courtroom, he sensed Alexia staring at him expectantly. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew exactly what expression she was wearing. One of mock sympathy. Without Ali, The Real Byte was as good as bust and she knew it.

‘Your Honour,’ he said, tentatively. In the pause between his words, he heard nothing. Not the rustling of papers, not the creaking of the benches. Not the sound of breathing. The courtroom held its breath.

Sensing Okoro’s hesitancy, Peters looked up.

‘Well?’ she said.

*

Sarah’s rental property was ten minutes’ walk south in a nondescript urban nucleus comprising mainly of Chinese takeaways, pawn shops and places where you could, apparently, secure a loan of up to five thousand pounds in less than three minutes; that was assuming you were prepared to accept an APR figure that was the same length as the shop’s telephone number.

Priest led Georgie down the street past a group of men huddled together at the entrance to a William Hill. They were examining a ticket carefully. From what Priest could gather, a particular greyhound had crossed the line first and a dispute had developed between them as to who owned the winning ticket. Priest guided Georgie across to the other side of the street.

Further down they walked under some badly constructed scaffolding. Someone wolf-whistled behind them from a third-storey balcony but Georgie seemed oblivious, engrossed as she was in asking Priest more questions about the arrangements that had been made for Simeon.

‘So Simeon lives at a house your sister owns?’ she asked.

‘It’s actually one of a few we have together but Sarah keeps the keys and deals with the paperwork. I’d just lose them if they were under my control. When our parents died, they left us a small portfolio.’

‘What about—’ Georgie blurted out but then, flushed, covered her mouth quickly. ‘Oh, I—’

‘You mean what about William?’ said Priest, referring to the eldest Priest child, who was currently serving an endless sentence in a maximum security psychiatric hospital just outside London. Eleven years ago, he had pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity to a string of murders that had earned him notoriety as one of the country’s most prolific serial killers. In a decision that was as controversial at the time as William’s crimes were outrageous, the Old Bailey had absolved him of responsibility but passed down an indefinite hospital order. William Priest would never see the outside world again.

‘Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . you know.’