The voice is deep and resonant, with the faintest trace of a West Country accent.

‘I’m calling to ask you to attend the station tomorrow.’

‘What’s this about?’ I say, my throat tightening. ‘What do you want?’

‘We’ll explain everything tomorrow, Miss Adams,’ he says calmly. ‘If you report to reception at 1 p.m. and ask for me we’ll take it from there. Good evening.’

I hear a click on the other end. I stand there motionless, the phone clasped in my hand, the trill of the Antiques Roadshow theme music filtering through the living-room door.

This is it, I tell myself as I make my way upstairs. I’m going to be arrested.

And I deserve to be. Because they’ve got it right. I killed Geoffrey Rivers.

PART TWO

24.

Wimbledon Magistrates Court 25 February 2019

The first thing I see as I am led into the courtroom is a large picture hanging on the wall, to the right of the public gallery. It’s a charcoal drawing, post-impressionist in style, of a street puppet dancing, its strings being pulled and manipulated by a faceless man. The puppet smiles manically, though its eyes are dead, while the man controlling it blends into the background. It’s a disturbing picture and I turn my face away from it as the court usher leads me to my place, try to focus on what I have to say.

In front of me, the barristers look down at their papers. All except one. My adversary. He adjusts his gold cufflinks then sits, poker straight, and fixes me with a cold, unblinking stare. A shiver flutters through me as I consider this man’s power. With a few words he can destroy me. I have to keep calm, have to have faith in my story, stick to it and pray that the jury will believe me.

I take my seat and look up to the public gallery. Georgie and Jack are sitting in the front row. My sister smiles reassuringly, just as she had done at Mum’s funeral and my graduation and all those other times when I needed to know someone had my back. I return her smile then turn away. I need to focus, need to keep my emotions in check or else it will all unravel.

But as I sit I feel another pair of eyes upon me. I lift my head and see him. Connor. His hair has been cropped short and he’s lost weight. The stress of the last few months is etched across his face. He looks back at me with thinly disguised disgust. He hates me for what I’ve done. That much is clear. His mother sits with her hands clutching the rail of the public gallery. As my eyes meet hers she shakes her head and scowls. Like her son, she wants to see me destroyed today, to get my punishment.