I lost myself for a moment in his touch, the lightness of it, a soft caress. I marvelled again at how resolutely he’d stood by me. Against all evidence to the contrary, he’d refused to ever accept my guilt. But then his words returned – ‘This nightmare will be over’ – and they dragged me back to the bowels of the prison where the whispered threats told me otherwise.

Afternoon. I’m told juries are less focused after lunch, which would explain why the defence has called their next witness – a Thames Valley Police pathologist – because no one is going to fall asleep through her evidence. My heart is beating so hard, I’m convinced everyone can hear it as the woman walks silently to the witness box and raises her right hand. This is the evidence I’ve been dreading – the day my guilt is a medical fact, a not-to-be-questioned, scientific certainty – because who is going to question science? Certainly not the plumber sitting in the far right of the jury box, or the local-government worker sat two in from the left.

I reach to pick up my glass of lukewarm water – half empty from this morning – and sip at it. My hand is shaking and so, quickly, I lower it back down. I daren’t look at the jury in case they are looking back at me, reading the shaking as a sure sign of my guilt. Then, as glass touches wood, the pathologist begins and each word feels like a nail in my jail cell door.

‘The body showed signs of bruising consistent with being restrained.’

‘Restrained? Can you describe why you concluded that?’

The pathologist raises her wrists. ‘There was bruising on the inside of each wrist, inconsistent with normal movement.’

The barrister glances at the jury, letting them know this bit is relevant. ‘And what was it consistent with?’

‘Being restrained, and—’ She opens her mouth to say something more but the barrister holds up his hand and whatever it was is lost, to become part of someone else’s story, not mine. Because this is how my trial feels; I’m the lead in a story being written by this barrister as he deftly guides the jury down one plot line to another, each of them designed to get me fifteen to life.

‘And how did the defendant seem to you when you arrived at the scene?’

‘She seemed distant. She didn’t speak.’

‘Did she look at her daughter?’

The pathologist shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Not once?’

‘Not once.’

‘In your experience, did the defendant behave the way a woman who had just lost her child would behave?’

The pathologist paused and the barrister continued. ‘If she hadn’t killed her, that is.’

‘You mean, if it had been an accident?’

‘Yes, that sort of thing. A natural death.’ Another glance to the jury and I dig my nails into my thighs.