They were led into the magistrates’ court and the usher showed them where to sit. There were one or two witnesses and a few officials already present but he – the driver – was not there yet. Kate had been told that here in the courtroom she would finally be able to ask questions. She clutched her bag on her lap. Inside was a piece of A4 paper. She’d written them down. She looked around the room, at the wooden panels and desks, behind which were chairs covered in a blue, woven fabric. The court was small and with a sudden realization she saw she’d be sitting close to the driver; only a few metres would separate them.

Then the usher came back in and a man followed him. He was medium-height, slim build. A neat beard covered his lower face, almost disguising a birthmark that ran across his cheek and down his neck. He had brown hair, cut short, which made it stick up a bit, and he looked as though he was in his late thirties. Dressed in an ill-fitting dark-grey suit that seemed to hang off his shoulders, he looked straight ahead. Then she saw another man was with him. Puzzled for a moment, she wondered if she’d got it wrong, but then she realized with a jolt that the second man was his solicitor. It wrong-footed her. He didn’t deserve that, someone advising him on every word, every thought. Worse, she hadn’t even considered getting any help herself. Such was her financial state, it hadn’t even occurred to her.

She’d let Becky down. Again. She’d put her trust in the system, naively thinking seven months ago that it was so obvious the driver was in the wrong, justice would be served.

Tim put a hand on her knee as the driver sat down. Trembling, she reached for him, and he curled his fingers around hers. She forced herself to stay locked in some sort of pseudo-composure, even though her heart was racing. She looked across, at first dreading it, but the driver didn’t meet her eye. She carried on staring, convinced he would eventually glance over, until finally it dawned on her that he wouldn’t and then she hated him for his cowardice. She didn’t want him to have any part of this easy. She wanted him to see her pain, to know what he’d done, how he’d taken away the most precious person in her life. She wanted to go up to him and wipe that bland, tight-lipped expression off his face and shove him, punch him, scream at him over and over—

‘All rise.’

The usher had spoken, and they all stood as the coroner came in. He had a bright tie on, turquoise and green, and Kate knew it was irrational, but it lifted her. It reminded her of a national newsreader who she admired greatly for his intelligence and candidness and his signature clothing was bright ties. It gave her hope.

As the inquest unfolded, Kate listened to the witnesses give their statements: the woman who had been passing when the lorry pulled Becky’s bike under but had not seen anything as the wind and the rain on the night had meant she was holding her umbrella low to stop it turning inside out. She was the one who had called the emergency services, who had held Becky’s hand until the ambulance arrived. The investigative policeman spoke of how the driver had been breathalyzed and was within the legal limits, how the indicator lights were working. He stated how CCTV confirmed that Becky had been fifteen metres from the lorry when the driver turned on his indicator but there was no CCTV of the actual accident site. As such, there were no witnesses to the event itself.