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chairwoman said, ‘Miss Richmond, we were thinking of a twenty pound fine and ten pounds costs or one day. Do you wish to say anything?’

      ‘No, madam.’

      ‘You may stand down, Miss Butcher.’

      ‘Baker,’ I corrected.

      ‘Yes.’

      By being in custody overnight Saskia had served her one day in prison so she wouldn’t have to pay the fine. She knew that and grinned at me as she walked out.

      I bowed to the bench, picked up my Guardian and slid along the seat. A shifty-looking man in his mid thirties, wearing a shapeless brown jacket with the collar up, and holding a spiral notebook, approached me at the back of the courtroom.

      ‘Miss Eh … ?’

      ‘Yes?’ I said pleasantly. I noticed that he bit his nails.

      ‘Your client there, isn’t she also known as Saskia Baron?’

      ‘You’d better ask her.’

      ‘And how do you spell your name, Miss Eh … ?’

      ‘Correctly,’ I said primly, and walked to the door of the court as he slid over to speak to the officer in the case. It was eleven thirty exactly.

      Saskia appeared from the lavatory and we walked out to my car, which was parked in a side turning off Holloway Road. There was five minutes left on the meter.

      ‘Did that journalist speak to you?’ I asked her as she got into the car.

      ‘What journalist?’ she asked, clicking her seat belt into place.

      ‘In the courtroom,’ I said as I slowly turned the car in the narrow street where I had parked. ‘He had pock-marked skin and was wearing brown shoes. There he is –’ I watched him cross the road. ‘Why’s he leaving at this time? He can’t have finished work, it’s too early. And I doubt your case is the scoop of the day, it’s hardly frontpage news.’

      As I waited for a large lorry to squeeze past me, I saw the man get into the passenger seat of a dark saloon car.

      ‘Where?’ Saskia twisted in her seat, as the car moved away in the opposite direction. ‘Where?’ Her voice was loud and anxious.

      ‘He’s gone,’ I said, irritated that she hadn’t seen him, concerned by her reaction. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her. I didn’t tell her he’d had a driver.

      Saskia sat with her head back and her eyes closed, as if savouring her freedom. As we turned into Holloway Road I asked, ‘Do you want to nip in and see Kay? Her office is just down here. You could have a wash and brush up, then we could go somewhere nice for coffee. There are some good places on Church Street.’

      Saskia pulled down the sun visor and looked at her face in the mirror. ‘Oh my God, look at me,’ she said mournfully, touching her face with her fingertips. ‘My cheek, my eye – Frankie, I can’t go out in public looking like this. Can we just go to your place? Would that be OK? I can’t face seeing anyone. Perhaps I could I have a bath or something …’

      I looked at my watch. I could hear the appeal papers in Morris calling me. Rapidly I reorganised my timetable. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘OK.’ We drove past Kay’s office and I touched her arm gently. ‘You don’t look that bad.’

      She smiled at me gratefully. ‘You know, you haven’t changed a bit,’ she said.

      ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

      ‘You’re still … well, smart and crisp, all professional in your black clothes,’ she said. ‘I like your hair, is it different?’

      ‘No.’ I looked at myself quickly in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s always been like this.’ It was short at the back and long at the front. ‘I’ve just had some blonde streaks put in, to highlight the brown or something.’ I flicked my fringe back.

      ‘Well, it’s lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘It’s like coming home.’

      At my flat I ran a bath in my small white bathroom and found some green herbal essence which filled the room with something vaguely related to the smell of fields and trees as I poured it under the running tap. I put out two giant blue towels and an old clean shirt of mine and left her to it. In the kitchen I made coffee and took some apple strudel out of the freezer to put into the microwave on Saskia’s reappearance.

      I rang chambers and told Gavin I’d be in later.

      ‘You’ve got a couple of messages,’ he said. ‘Can you please ring Dr Henry. And someone called Hayman or Wayman rang – I can’t read this, Jenna wrote it, she’s a lovely girl, but her handwriting’s shocking – anyway, I think it says it’s not urgent and they’ll ring back.’

      ‘Who is Dr Henry?’ I asked.

      ‘I thought you knew,’ he said. ‘She said he’d ring you at home, he has your number.’

      ‘Who did?’

      ‘The secretary. I thought it was personal.’ He gave me Dr Henry’s number again, reminded me of my appeal papers and rang off.

      I dialled the number. ‘Dr Henry’s surgery,’ an efficient female voice said.

      ‘Is Dr Henry there?’ I could hear Saskia singing something folky in the bath.

      ‘I am afraid Dr Henry is in consultation at this moment. Could I ask you to call back later?’

      ‘Well, no,’ I said. ‘Dr Henry appears to be trying to contact me.’

      ‘What is this concerning?’ The thin voice was guarded.

      ‘I have no idea. My name is Frances Richmond.’

      ‘Oh, Miss Richmond,’ her tone was concerned, caring, ‘I’m afraid Dr Henry is so busy right now, but I’ll say that you called. I know that the doctor is very anxious to speak with you.’

      I thanked her and put the phone down as Saskia came in, smelling sweet and looking much better than I ever did in my grey denim shirt. Her blonde hair stood up in wet spikes.

      ‘Frankie, that was a life-saver. Mmm, something smells wonderful.’ She sat down at the kitchen table as I poured coffee into two cups. The autumn sun cut through the French doors. Outside two late pink roses swayed in the wind. Saskia looked like a battered angel as her hair dried into soft pale layers.

      The microwave pinged and I took out the strudel. I cut slices and put them on my blue and yellow Italian plates. ‘Now,’ I said, pulling out a chair, ‘we are going to do some serious talking.’

      She nibbled her strudel.

      ‘First of all,’ I began, ‘where do those bruises come from?’

      She picked up her cup and ran her fingers across the blue-painted rim. She took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Heaven.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Well …’

      The phone rang in the living room.

      ‘Frankie! You’re in! I was going to leave a message on your machine.’

      ‘Lena, I’m a bit busy at the moment. Can I call you back?’

      ‘Well, actually, sweetie, you can’t – that’s what I’m ringing about. I’m just off for three days to Paris.’

      ‘Paris!’ I turned to raise my eyebrows at Saskia, to see her disappearing into the hall.

      ‘Saskia!’ I called and heard the front door click.

      ‘Frankie? Frankie?’

      ‘Look, Lena, I’ve got to go.’

      ‘I’m ringing just to say I’m going to Paris with Sophie.’

      ‘With Sophie? My God. I thought

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