Muirhead was in his mid-forties and had been at the Scottish Bar for over twenty years. He was generally regarded as being the best defence counsel of his generation. His formidable reputation was based largely on his enthusiasm for battle. A ferocious cross-examiner, he would fight a client’s case to the bitter end, often in the face of apparently insurmountable odds – and seemingly overwhelming evidence. His many celebrated bust-ups with judges were the stuff of tabloid legend, his cases covered assiduously by the press. He had once remarked at a dinner party that judges were like children. ‘You mean they should be seen and not heard?’, a guest had enquired. ‘No. They should respect their betters and be regularly smacked to keep them in order,’ Muirhead had replied.

In today’s trial, he and the judge, Lord Cowden, had crossed swords more than once. When a police officer was proved to be particularly recalcitrant in the face of persistent interrogation, the judge had sought to come to his rescue, remarking, ‘The man has answered your question, Mr Muirhead.’

‘Then,’ came the instant rejoinder, ‘your Lordship’s hearing is indeed more acute than that of myself or any of the members of the jury, because we do not seem to have heard it – yet.’

The thinly muffled chortling of the jury made Lord Cowden realise that this was one round he was not going to win.

But now the verdict awaited, and Muirhead steeled himself the few tense minutes which would decide his client’s fate. He hated this moment. He always had. The trial of Her Majesty’s Advocate against Charles Gallagher was about to come to an end.

There are few things in life more dramatic than the end of a murder trial. The speed of events can catch the uninitiated completely unaware. A jury returns – a verdict is delivered. Murder brings a mandatory life sentence with the prospect of nothing more than many years in prison to look forward to. An acquittal and moments later the former accused leaves the building to find his family and freedom awaiting him.

Muirhead had witnessed this play within a play many times. Each time he disliked it a little more. It was the part of the trial he had no control over. Given the choice, he would avoid it. Such an option was never available. If the verdict went against him, he would have to go down to the white-tiled cells below the court and explain to the client why it had all gone so badly wrong. Words of comfort. Platitudes. However well intentioned. Think about an appeal. Take one day at a time. Not the end of the world. Life goes on.