Tabitha couldn’t remember that. But then she couldn’t remember much of yesterday, nor of the days preceding it. Everything was a jumble of faces, eyes staring, questions she couldn’t answer, words she couldn’t make sense of, people saying her name over and over again—her name and her address and her date of birth and then pieces of paper pushed toward her, machines clicked on to record what she was saying, long corridors and strip lighting, doors and keys and bars.

“In the visitors’ room,” the woman was saying. Keys jangled at her waist. “It’s not a day for visiting.”

The visitors’ room was large and square and too brightly lit. There were small tables in rows with a chair on either side, two vending machines by the wall. The room was empty except for a middle-aged woman who was sitting at one of the tables with her laptop in front of her. She took off her glasses and rubbed her round face and then replaced them, frowning as she read. As Tabitha approached, she looked up and briefly smiled, then stood and held out her hand, which was strong and warm. She had peppery-gray hair and a steady gaze and Tabitha felt a surge of hope. This woman would sort everything out.

“I’m Mora Piozzi,” she said. “I’ve been asked to represent you.”

“What happened to the other one?” He’d been young and cheerful in a blustery, unreassuring way.

“He was the duty solicitor. He referred your case to me.”

They both sat and faced each other, their chairs scratching across the linoleum.

“How are you?” asked Mora Piozzi.

“How am I?” Tabitha resisted the urge to shout at her. What kind of question was that? “I’m locked up in prison and I don’t know what’s happening.”

“It’s my job to bring clarity to this and to help you.”

“Right.”

“First things first. You need to tell me if you agree to me representing you.”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ve got your prison number, in case you haven’t been issued it yet.”

“A prison number? But I’ll be out of here soon. Why do I need a number?”

“Here.”

She pushed a card across to Tabitha, who read it out loud: “AO3573.” She looked up. “So I’m a number now.”

“It’s just bureaucracy. You’ll need it for people who are going to visit.”

“Visit?”

“As a remand prisoner you’re entitled to have up to three visitors a week. Has nobody explained all this?”

“Everything’s a bit of a blur.”

Mora Piozzi nodded. “It’s hard at first.”

“I just want to leave here as quickly as possible.”

“Of course. Which is why I am here. But, Tabitha, you do understand what the charge is?”

“I know what they say I did.”