‘Alice – if it goes to appeal, I can’t tell you what way it’s going to go. I’m not a criminal lawyer. And even if I was, I still couldn’t call it. But if Blake seeks permission to appeal, he has to file what they call a Form NG – Notice and Grounds of Appeal, setting out what his lawyer says was wrong with his conviction. If the Form NG is granted by the judge, then it goes to the Court of Appeal at the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand. And if the judge there decides it’s an unsafe conviction, he could walk. I’m really sorry.’

Sorry this world will not leave you alone. Sorry I can’t do anything to make it better. Sorry your husband got kicked to death for defending his family.

‘I’ll be there with you,’ I promised. ‘You don’t have to go through this alone. I’ll be right by your side in the courtroom.’

But by then she had hung up.

I walked into the loft and stood by the large windows, watching the sun come up over the rooftops of Smithfield and the Barbican, first light shimmering on the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral and, even closer, the bronze statue on top of the Old Bailey, blindfolded Lady Justice, her outstretched arms perfectly balanced between the scales in her left hand and the sword in her right.

And although the blindfold Lady Justice wears was meant to make all her judgements seem impartial and wise, today it just made her justice seem random and mindless and cruel.

Stan watched me carefully from his basket and when I went to the door and began putting my boots on, he padded over, his round eyes shining and his tail wagging with delight. We went downstairs and into the street, the Cavalier so relaxed by my side, his old leather lead so loose, that it felt as though we didn’t need it at all. We were walking past Smiths of Smithfield when out of nowhere he tried to dash out into the traffic.

The lead snapped tight and a black cab flew past, inches from his head, its horn blaring.

I crouched down to look into my dog’s face. Those great black marbles of eyes were wild and his tongue – as pink as Duchy of Cornwall organic ham – lolled out of his panting mouth. He sniffed the morning air, savouring some perfume that only he could detect.

‘What’s wrong with you, Stan? Christ almighty, you could have been killed!’

And then I saw the woman with her white miniature poodle on the other side of Charterhouse Street. I looked at Stan. He panted some more, and he wouldn’t meet my eye. I shook my head with disbelief.