The stipendiary turned to address the court. ‘Now, Mrs Poppy Tilling.’ He looked around as if expecting her to magically appear. The clerk of the court leaned across his desk and fiddled with a console in front of him. A large TV screen in one corner of the courtroom flickered into life, revealing a startlingly close-up image of the florid face of Mrs Tilling, in bed. Her hair was neatly arranged in a ponytail, and she was wearing some kind of shapeless leopard-print top that almost filled the screen. A female officer stood at the bedside.

‘Mrs Tilling.’ The magistrate then asked her about the whereabouts of her daughter Verity and repeated his request that she be persuaded to return of her own will.

‘I’ve no idea where she is.’

‘Now, Mrs Tilling. I understand that you have mobility issues. I’d want to ask you to co-operate with those attempting to improve your health to allow for your attendance at Crown Court.’

‘I’ll come to Crown Court if it’s a case about the murder of my son, Robert.’

‘Mrs Tilling, may I remind you that it is not up to you to decide which cases you would wish to attend. This is not, if I may choose a particularly apposite metaphor, a Christmas box of chocolates from which you pick only those that appeal most.’ The magistrate permitted himself a small indulgent smile before he continued. ‘You are required to attend in person, and I expect you to make whatever physical adjustments are required to ensure that happens.’

‘I’m not coming unless it’s about Robert,’ she said again. She banged a huge arm right in front of the screen, and the image jumped. ‘I am a victim. I have suffered grief that you would not believe for more than thirty years. I demand justice.’

‘Mrs Tilling, I am sure everyone has the greatest sympathy for your loss. However, you are in no position to make demands or reset the legal agenda. You are accused of three extremely serious offences for which a custodial sentence would on conviction be inevitable. You seem to think that you are able to treat this as something no more serious than dropping a chocolate wrapper in a park.’

‘Then I’m not coming.’

‘You most certainly will attend, Mrs Tilling,’ the stipendiary told her, his face bristling with indignation. ‘You will be seized and brought to face justice, even if you have to be moved with a crane. Your comments are already close to contempt of court.’

The video call was ended and the formalities of the hearing concluded. Leticia watched as Gary was escorted by two burly prison officers out of the courtroom.