No one so much as gives me a sideways glance as I walk through the bay of curtain-lined cubicles towards the relatives’ room. I’m just one more person in the department and as long as I’m not making a nuisance of myself or demanding attention, I’m the least of their worries.

There’s a corridor that separates the main department from the resuscitation ward. I keep my head down as much as possible, while trying to look around. There are a number of uniformed police officers standing around and no obvious sign of Bernie Doherty. Thankfully, there is also no sign of DS King, so I brave it to walk towards the family waiting room. Chances are, she will be ensconced there – perhaps with other family members or the police. Can I risk knocking on the door? What will her reaction be?

I hear whispers of conversation around me.

‘It was pretty brutal,’ one police officer says. ‘I’ve not seen the likes of it before. Someone has it in for him.’

‘It’s the wife I feel sorry for. She’s in an awful state. Imagine seeing that and not being able to do anything.’

As I walk past them, they stop speaking, perhaps aware they have been speaking inappropriately and they have no idea who will walk past them or what they might know. Derry is a small city and it’s still the case that everyone knows everyone else’s business. News like this, if it got out, would spread like wildfire.

There’s only one thing for it really. I should be brazen. The worst that can happen is that I’ll be told to get lost. If it happens, it will hardly be the first time and it certainly won’t be the last.

I walk to the door of the family room – that private space, with the comfy seats and boxes of tissues on the table to help mop up the tears when the bad news is broken. The place no one wants to be shown to. The place where pain and grief are contained.

Although I half expect to feel a hand on my shoulder to stop me, or to be asked by one of the police officers who I am and where I’m going, it doesn’t happen. Before I know it, I’m knocking on the door, turning the handle and letting myself in.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ingrid

Bernie Doherty is still holding the bloodstained coat, only now I can see clearly that it is not her own. It must be Liam’s. Her grip is so tight, her hands stark white – a direct contrast to the darkness of the coat. Small specks of blood are luminous against her pallor. There is a streak of blood on her forehead. As if she wiped the back of her hand on her brow, mopping away her own sweat with a trail of her husband’s blood.