‘Well. You do work for The Chronicle and you do have an interview with Jamesy Harte in the bag, don’t you? You offered it to me before, so surely you will offer it to me again.’

‘And surely this time will be my chance to say no. I’ve already committed to using it in a book.’

‘Ingrid,’ he says, his head to one side. He reaches out to me. ‘Don’t be like that. This would be great for The Chronicle. It would be great for us …’

I take a step back. ‘Ryan, I came here to you with the exclusive about his death. I came here to work with you on getting that to a place where we can publish it. I didn’t come here to hand over the interview I did in my own time.’

I stand up from where I’ve been perched on his desk, but he grabs my arm and forces me back down.

‘For Christ’s sake, Ingrid,’ he snarls, and there is anger in his eyes. ‘You know how tough this business is at the minute. Head office will be looking at the numbers again soon and I’ve no need to remind you that print sales are still in decline, as well as advertising revenue. This could give us the boost we need to save more jobs from the axe. Are you really that selfish you’d keep that from us? Are you really that much of a bitch?’

I look him in the eye. This isn’t about jobs, I know that. We both know that any boost now will just bring about a stay of execution. The executioner is still sharpening his axe and getting ready for the next round of redundancies. This is about Ryan wanting to lay claim to something that isn’t his.

He has stalled this story at every opportunity and now – now, when the villain of the piece is most likely dead – he wants to go to town. I already know what angle he’ll take. After all, you can’t libel the dead. You certainly can’t libel a convicted child killer who never had the chance to clear his name. He’ll use whatever he can from my interview to bury whatever remnants of Jamesy Harte’s alleged innocence are left.

‘Back off,’ I snap, my voice low but just as menacing as his.

He does what I ask and steps back from me, his hands clenched. Frustration is coming off him in waves.

‘You told me to keep out of this story altogether,’ I remind him. ‘Just a wee colour piece for the anniversary, you said. You told me no good could come of it.’