The evidence was thirty minutes of audio on a USB police had found among Kendra Bartlett’s possessions—recordings the young woman had made on her phone during the week before her death and transferred to a USB to avoid detection by Santino. The defence maintained that the recordings were inadmissible because they were made without Santino’s knowledge or consent and potentially had been faked by Kendra.

Hugh Warby stumbled through arguments in favour of the evidence being presented to the jury. ‘The probative … ah, the probative value of … If Your Honour could excuse me a second while I find the notes on—um …’

‘Let’s just have a listen to some of this audio, shall we?’ suggested Burke, making no effort to conceal his contempt for Warby’s inept performance.

When the recording began, Kendra Bartlett’s voice sliced through the air in the courtroom and hit Anita with a force she wasn’t ready for. She’d been looking at pictures of this woman, she’d been imagining her life and her death for weeks now, but hearing her voice was electrically charged at another level altogether.

‘Johnny, I just need some time away; I need some time to think,’ Kendra could be heard saying at the start of the section played in court.

After that, the audio was dominated by John Santino’s voice, either sneering in a nasty little singsong tune or spitting words at her with raw aggression.

‘What’s that you’ve got, Kendra? Is that a backpack? Is that your little bug-out bag? Your little escape kit? You brainless fucking slut. Did you honestly fucking think you could sneak off and I wouldn’t know?’

As Santino continued hectoring her, you could still hear Kendra’s voice, but faintly, as she tried to appeal to him.

‘What? What? I can’t hear you!’ he bellowed at her. ‘You don’t get to decide to walk out on me. I’ve put money into you. I’ve spent my money on all your shit. That makes you my investment property. My investment property can’t decide to walk out my door and go off to play with her little fag friend. Fuck me, sometimes you shit me so much, I can’t stand to look at you one second longer—but I’m the one who decides if and when you go, okay? Okay?’

By this point Kendra was barely audible. Anita could just make out the sound of her crying and her voice, thin and friable, pleading, ‘Please, Johnny. Please, baby, let me go.’