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The three minutes take an age to pass. And I’m the star of the show. But this isn’t a show you’d want to be part of.

The judge, scrutinising me from above. The jury, awaiting his word. My close family in the galleries, their eyes clamped shut in a pleading prayer. My barrister, looking bleak in his seat despite his best efforts. We are all in such different places, and yet not one of us will ever forget how I got here. Not for as long as we live.

My elder brother Robert’s funeral was a quiet affair. It took place in a peaceful Christian church near our hometown, one that my parents often visit. Only a handful of people showed up, but this wasn’t a surprise. In the ten years after he finished his education, all contact with his school friends had been lost. He worked for a small shop, doing small jobs – none of his colleagues knew him well.

He’d died in a car accident; the other driver involved remaining unhurt, unnamed and undetectable. However a package I received a few weeks later suggested otherwise.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I recognised the handwriting on the envelope. But I was blind to small details like that. Regardless, my interest was drawn to the small packet. It didn’t feel like there was a letter in there. I had no idea what it was.

Curious, though partially not expecting anything of concern, I opened it. Inside laid a shining silver USB memory stick. Nothing else. At this point, my full attention was drawn to the contents of that envelope. What did it contain? Why was it sent to me? I was just a 24-year-old from Wrotham. I wasn’t involved in anything out of the ordinary. And yet I had just been delivered this mysterious source of information. I placed the USB into my laptop. Curiosity turned to shock as my brother appeared on the screen in a bland, hotel-like room that I’d never seen before. Instantly he burst into speech. A speech that would change my life.

Robert was taking a casual stroll along Bournemouth harbour after a night out with friends when he a stumbled across a row of shipping containers with police markings across the side. Intrigued and slightly drunk, he walked around them in search of clues as to what they contained. As he passed the central crate, voices faintly escaped from the inside. Putting his ear up to the cold metal door, the conversation he heard kick started his mind racing.

“Seems to be a lot of class-B stuff in here. Last raid had a lot more A, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, well, it still sells for a lot of money. That’s why the two guards at any one time are necessary.”

“True. Let’s lock up and get back outside, I don’t like the smell in here…”

Muffled footsteps began towards him. Panicking, Robert ran towards his car. Inevitably the guards heard his feet pounding the floor – and gave chase.

Robert jumped in his car and started the engine, racing away from what he’d heard. As he turned a corner to safety, he saw the guards emerge into the car park. Relief and confusion felt their way into his head, incoherent from the alcohol. Hands sweating, he slipped onto the motorway into the peace of the night.

“I don’t know if they caught my number plate. I don’t know if they saw me, or if there’s CCTV. I sure as Hell hope not...” My brother’s face became anxious, before smoothing out into its normal form. “I’m going back tomorrow. I need evidence, so this whole thing can be exposed. The Government can’t get away with selling drugs for their own gains like this. I’ll send this tape through a friend, so it doesn’t get lost in the post.

“Oh, and before I go: It’s currently Sunday the fourth of April. Hope I see you soon.”

My heart seemed to stop along with the recording. Sunday, April the fourth. Robert died on the fifth.

I was beyond doubt that my brother didn’t die in a car crash. He was murdered for finding the truth. As much as it saddened me, I knew that a court case would never work. It would be corrupt, and would end with me having an unfortunate “accident” as well. No, that wouldn’t work. I had to find my own way of bringing justice.

It wasn’t hard to identify who was behind it all. Richard Curtis was the Head of Drugs Control in England. No raids would go by without his knowing.