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trembling. He wondered about the husband in Hong Kong, and how he could leave her to deal with this on her own.
    “He’ll appear in youth court first thing tomorrow morning. The case itself’ll probably go to the Crown Court, so there’ll be a plea and case management hearing in about two weeks . . .”
    “Plea hearing? Well, he’s not guilty of course.”
    “The only thing is that they’ll ask for him to be taken into custody through all of this, probably a secure unit. It will be a few months until the trial. We’ll obviously ask that he be granted bail, but in murder cases the judge tends to rule for custody, even for a child.”
    “Murder. Cases. Murder. We can pay, you know? Whatever it costs.”
    “Like I said, I’ll get a good barrister for you and they’ll argue, but we have to prepare ourselves for him being in custody for some time before the trial.”
    “When will the trial be?”
    “It all depends. I would think by November . . .”
    Charlotte covered her mouth as she gulped. “And his defense?”
    “We’ll be contacting potential witnesses for the defense, and instructing expert witnesses, in this case psychiatrists, psychologists . . .”
    “Why on earth?”
    “Well, they’ll assess Sebastian—whether he’s fit or sane enough to stand trial.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s perfectly sane.”
    “But they will also talk about the crime itself and assess whether Sebastian is mature enough to understand the offense he is charged with committing . . .”
    She sucked hard at the last of her cigarette. It was a stub tweezered in her manicured nails and yet she sucked at it. Daniel saw the lipstick stains on the butt and the cigarette stains on her fingertips. He remembered his own mother’s yellow fingertips and the line of her skull appearing when she inhaled. He remembered the bite of hunger, watching as she swapped a ten-pound note for drugs. He remembered lollipops for dinner, crunching them too fast.
    He closed his eyes and took a breath. It was the letter, he knew, not Charlotte, which had provoked these memories. He shook his head as if to release them.
    It was seven o’clock in the evening. The interview room was calmed by the sweet smell wafting from Sebastian’s hot chocolate.
    Sergeant Turner cleared his throat. Written notice of the charge was given to Charlotte and Daniel as Sebastian’s appropriate adult representatives.
    “Sebastian Croll, you are charged with the offense stated below: murdering Benjamin Tyler Stokes on Sunday the eighth, August 2010.”
    “That’s all right with me,” Sebastian answered. He held his breath, as if he was about to take a dive.
    Daniel felt his throat tighten as he watched the boy. Part of him admired the boy’s gall but another part of him wondered what it was masking. He glanced at Charlotte and she was rocking gently, holding on to her elbows. It was as if she was to be charged instead of her son.
    Turner faltered for a moment at the boy’s response. The boy turned to his mother. “I didn’t do it, Mummy!”
    Charlotte put a hand on his leg to calm him. He began to pick at his fingernails, his lower lip out.
    “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention now something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
    “I didn’t do it, you know. Mum, I didn’t,” said Sebastian.
    He began to cry.
    D aniel was there at 8:55 the next morning when the security van drew up and opened its doors to receive Sebastian. Daniel stood with his arms folded as the boy was led from his cell, his thin wrists cuffed, into the cage in the back of the van. Shades on, Charlotte cried. She gripped Daniel’s forearm as the cage doors were closed and locked.
    “Mummy,” Sebastian called from inside. “Mummy!” His screams were like a nail coursing along the metal casing of the van. Daniel held his breath. He had watched this happen to so many clients, people he