I mull over his words. He doesn’t seem to realise that no matter how terrified I am, there is no way I’m walking away from this story; if he thinks that, he is sorely mistaken. I might want to run, but I know now, after what has happened tonight, that there is something huge going on here. Something bigger than Jamesy Harte trying to challenge his conviction.

That level of brutality is only ever born out of anger and fear. Someone is trying to get the message across, loud and clear, that Kelly Doherty’s death should be consigned to history – no matter what questions may be asked these days, no matter a family’s desire to grieve. No matter what. Someone is spooked. Someone is angry.

Which leads me to believe that someone is hiding something.

My phone rings again. I want to ignore it, but the tone is no less shrill and loud than it was before, so I pick it up to reject the call. My heart thuds, almost loud enough to drown out the noise of the phone, as I see Jamesy Harte’s name flash up on the screen.

Chapter Thirty

Ingrid

My finger hovers over the answer button as I try to prepare myself for the conversation we’re about to have.

I know I have to answer, even if every sinew in my body is telling me that I don’t want to. I may be feeling overwhelmed and scared, but I need to talk to him. I think I need to hear that he is okay. I press the answer icon, put him on loudspeaker and hold the phone in front of me.

‘What’s happened to him?’ Jamesy says before I even have the chance to say hello; his voice is slightly slurred as if he’s been drinking.

‘Mr Doherty? He’s been assaulted. That’s as much as I know,’ I lie.

I can hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the call. ‘Is it serious? The police say “life-changing” injury, what does that mean?’

‘I know what you know, Jamesy. I’m not working tonight.’

I almost tell him I’m at home but decide against it. I won’t give any more information than I need to. Fear is needling at me.

‘Can’t you find out? Call one of your contacts?’

‘That’s not how it works,’ I say, the third lie tripping off my tongue much easier than the first two. ‘There are official channels …’

‘Ingrid, maybe I’m not the sharpest tool in the box, but I’m not an eejit. I know people like you hear things. You’ve your sources. There must be rumours about who did it. It’s Derry. There’s always rumours.’

‘Jamesy,’ I say, forcing a steadiness into my voice that I most certainly do not feel, ‘I am telling you what I know. I don’t know who, or why.’