Michael’s supposed obsession with cycling was old news. It was years since he’d biked to work every morning and spent weekends driving to the South Downs to ride with his friends. But Wendy clearly liked to cling to the myth, so Romy said, ‘Well, hopefully it’ll stand him in good stead now.’

There was silence. She listened out for Daniel and Michael in the corridor, but there was no sound, except for the dull pulsing of a drill somewhere in a neighbouring flat.

‘We miss him,’ Wendy said. ‘Any idea when he might be back?’ She gave an apologetic smile and added quickly, ‘Probably too soon to ask.’

‘Certainly not for a while.’

Wendy shook her head gloomily. ‘That Andrew Marr fellow seems to have got back to normal,’ she said. ‘And his was a nasty one, by all accounts.’

‘I’m sure Michael will too. But the doctors have warned us not to expect too much too soon.’

Silence again. Romy found she couldn’t think of anything to say, because the only question that was burning on her tongue was the one that went, ‘Do you remember a work-experience girl, about sixteen years ago, who came for a week in the summer?’

Instead, she said, ‘I know you’re always very busy at this time of year. It must be hard being one barrister down.’

Wendy laughed ruefully. ‘It’s been a nightmare, to be honest. Michael has such a stellar reputation that everyone and his dog wants his services.’

Romy took a breath. ‘Do you still have all those work-experience teenagers helping out?’

‘“ Helping out ”?’ Wendy harrumphed. ‘More like cluttering up the place.’ She gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I’m not being unkind. They’re usually very sweet and eager to please. But they nag me all day long. And it’s always me they come to, because they’re too scared to ask anyone else.’

Romy laughed. ‘I was talking to someone the other day, and she thought the daughter of a friend of hers had done a week with you back in June 2002.’

Wendy shrugged. ‘Could have. What was her name? I never forget a name, even if I can’t remember what they look like.’

Romy pretended it was on the tip of her tongue. ‘Umm, what was it now? Emma, or Emily? Something like that. She was James’s connection, I think.’

Wendy thought for a moment. ‘There was Emily Hayhurst, but she was much later – more like 2011. I remember her because she was such a little minx, racked up a vast sum on the mobile I lent her to book taxis for court, ringing her boyfriend in France.’

‘Teenagers, eh? Like herding cats,’ Romy said sympathetically. ‘It was the year I broke my leg falling off a bike,’ she added, hoping to jog Wendy’s memory. ‘It was really hot that summer.’