A memory of him comes to my mind. In the small front garden of the house he shared with his mother. He would be there every day, just in time for all of us walking home from school. He’d chat to us. Sometimes he gave us sweets. Sometimes we gave him some of ours.

I heard grown-ups say there was ‘no harm in him’, but my mother warned me not to talk to him for too long. ‘You let Jamesy get on with his gardening and get yourself home to do your homework,’ she’d say.

After he was arrested, of course everyone in the neighbourhood had something to say. They no longer thought there was no harm in him. ‘There was always something about him,’ they’d whisper to each other over hedges and fences, or gossip over shop counters. They didn’t think, or care, that we could hear them, too.

I’d always thought he was a nice man. At Halloween his mammy would make a batch of toffee apples and if you were really quick, you’d get one for your goody bag. It was Jamesy who would hand them out, grinning, at his front door, delighted to see our excited faces.

I realise I’ve paused for a moment or two too long. I will myself to get it together. ‘Well, okay, Jamesy,’ I say. ‘I do want to talk to you. You know I work for The Chronicle now …’ I begin.

‘The Chronicle hasn’t been a friend to me,’ he says slowly.

His voice is thick with sadness. I clear my throat. ‘I’m aware of that, Jamesy,’ I say. ‘But I also do a bit of freelance work, you know. Write for other papers. I’ve even written a couple of books. True crime stuff.’

‘Aye,’ he says. ‘I saw that one you wrote about that Grahame woman’s death. It was a good read. Awful business altogether.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, trying not to think about how that entire episode had complicated my life way too much. ‘The thing is, I’d love to help you tell your side of the story. I know you’re claiming you were set up.’

‘I was set up,’ he says. ‘I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t do anything like that,’ he continues, his slow, deep voice losing its soft tone. ‘I didn’t deserve to go to prison. I never touched that wee girl, never mind did all those things they said. I’m not like that. I’m not a bad man. I wouldn’t ever do something like that. I wouldn’t do those things. Those dirty things. I never killed anyone. Not even a spider. Mammy would call me and I’d put them out the window. Those people, back then, the police and all, they just told lies, and made everyone believe they were telling the truth.’