‘I have to assess her mental state at the time of the offence and whether she is fit to stand trial. At some stage, Mr. de Cadenet, she has to be held accountable. If Connie doesn’t acknowledge her actions, how can there ever be recovery?’

‘Recovery?’ he repeated, taking his glasses off and pinching the skin between his eyes. He was from another generation: war children raised by parents who kept whole worlds locked away in boxes.

‘I think we all have to face pain, Mr. de Cadenet,’ she said, like the hypocrite she was.

‘I’m sorry to be disrespectful but I don’t trust you doctors,’ Mr. de Cadenet said. ‘Connie wasn’t herself, you see . . . Those drugs that silly grinning GP gave her . . . they did something, I’m sure . . .’

She knew exactly which drugs Connie had been taking at the time of the offence: aside from the Lofepramine for the depression, she’d been prescribed a benzodiazepine for her anxiety. Nothing unusual.

‘That’s very unlikely, Mr. de Cadenet.’

‘They all think I don’t notice anything, but I do.’ His voice faltered, his lip quivered. He was looking right at her now. ‘She just wasn’t herself at all.’

He pulled out a grubby grey handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. Emma reached out and touched his cold shaking hand. Where was David? Where was Karl? Where was Mrs. de Cadenet? He shouldn’t be here on his own.

Her touch, her empathy, elicited a release and the old man hung his head and began to weep. She took his hand in both of hers and smoothed it and squeezed it. ‘Connie was most likely suffering from a psychotic episode . . .’

‘That doesn’t mean anything! What did we do wrong?’ He was crying like a child. ‘I don’t know if I can forgive her. I thought I was a Christian . . . but I just can’t . . .’

Emma gripped his old mottled hand in hers. She said nothing.

‘I don’t know what to do. Julia always knows what to do when things go wrong . . .’

There was a ring of the doorbell. ‘That might be her . . . I’ll get it,’ Emma said, letting go of his hand, getting up, making her way into the hall. She opened the front door expecting Julia to be standing there, but instead a tall middle-aged man with messy, dark, greying hair and paint-splattered jeans hovered on the doorstep, clutching keys in his hand. Behind him in the road was parked a van with its engine running, its back doors open and its hazard lights flashing.

‘Oh, hi,’ he said, evidently wondering who she was. ‘Just come to pick up Andrew’s books for the market . . . ?’ He had a faint Irish accent.

‘Oh, right,’ she said.

A car horn honked. A car had pulled up behind the van. He turned round, whistled and raised his hand to the driver.