I work until my eyes threaten to jump out of my head and go home on their own. Only then do I switch off, lock up just as Ryan reminded me and leave for home, stopping at Sainsbury’s to pick up some sort of ready meal on the way. And a bottle of wine – for the fridge, of course. I promise myself I’ll do more work after I’ve showered and eaten, but I find my eyes drooping as I sit on my bed and towel my hair. I lie back on my pillow, vow I’ll just rest my eyes for five minutes, but I can already feel myself drifting off. The world is swimming somewhere between reality and my imagination.

It takes a minute then for me to realise that the sound I hear is not the siren of an approaching police car in my dream, but the ringing of my phone. Head fuzzy, eyes heavy, I reach out and answer, muttering a garbled hello.

‘Is that Ingrid Devlin?’ a male voice asks.

It’s deep, husky, as if its owner smokes thirty a day, but there’s also a nervous edge to it.

‘Yes. It is,’ I reply.

‘Good. Good,’ he says before he clears his throat. ‘This is Jamesy Harte. I heard you were looking to talk to me.’

I’m immediately awake, reaching to my bedside table for a pen and the notebook I keep there just in case. First rule of journalism: never be beyond reaching distance of a notebook and pen. I’m surprised to find my hand is shaking. I take a deep breath. This is Jamesy Harte. Fucking Jamesy Harte! The man who changed everything. Who made monsters real.

‘I am, Mr Harte. Thanks for getting in touch. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so quickly.’

Second rule of journalism: always be polite when first talking to a new source. Build a relationship of trust with them from the very beginning, even if they are suspected of being a very bad person.

‘No need to call me mister,’ he replies. ‘Jamesy will do. And if I’m right, you’re wee Ingrid Devlin from Creggan?’

‘Well, not so wee any more,’ I tell him. I’m about to remind him of my age, that I’m just a little older than Kelly Doherty would have been, but I think better of it. ‘But yes, you’ve a good memory. I am indeed from Creggan. Although my mum has moved away from Leenan Gardens now.’

‘There weren’t many wains called Ingrid around,’ he says, pausing to take a breath. ‘You remember a name like that.’

There’s something in the timbre of his voice that makes me uncomfortable. The thought that he remembers me, maybe. That maybe it’s more than just my name. I shiver, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I can’t escape what he was convicted of.