I’m tense, wound tight by my argument with Ryan. I’m not sure where to go from here, short of calling DI Bradley and telling him I suspect Ryan might know something about the Doherty murder. But it’s a closed case and there are so many open cases right now that I doubt he’ll care.

Maybe I could tell him that Ryan has been trying to steer me away from investigating this story. That I believe he is tied up in it in some way. I think of the anger in his voice just now and I feel that maybe, just maybe, he could be.

But I have nothing concrete to take to the police.

I’m pretty sure he won’t dare make any moves now, though. Hopefully, he’s currently sufficiently panicked that he’ll behave himself. I don’t think he would stupid enough to try anything that might show him in a further dark light.

I think of poor Jamesy and my heart aches for him. He’ll never feel the relief of being exonerated now. I don’t imagine people will be queuing up to identify whatever is left of him. Not even those who claim they were campaigning for him. It’s a sad end to a sad life, I think. An image of him comes to mind: smiling from the garden of his house, waving at us walking home from school. Kelly skipping over and offering him a Kola Kube from the paper bag she was carrying. He smiled and took it. I remember that. I remember him saying they were his favourite boiled sweet, and any time we bought a bag on the way home from school we would stop and give him one.

It’s funny how the memories are coming back. Bit by bit.

When I reach my flat, I sit at the table and sift through all of my paperwork and research materials, hoping to find something that I’ve overlooked before. Something that will help it all to make sense.

DC Black has assured me that he will be in touch when he has more information, but God only knows how long that will take. I tap my pen on my notepad, nervous energy making it impossible for me to sit still. I have to do something.

The little knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach grows – but I push it down. I can’t and won’t let it win. I read over my notes until I reach the transcript of my interview with Declan Heaney at the Rath Mor café. It jumps out at me again that he was never convinced that Jamesy Harte was guilty. But he wouldn’t be drawn on it.

‘Look,’ he’d said. ‘It’s just a gut feeling or something. Naw, it’s more than a gut feeling. I really don’t think it was him. It doesn’t make sense.’