Maybe, if I speak to him again, he might tell me more. Tell me what exactly he meant by ‘more than a gut feeling’.

Declan does seem keen to spend time with me. He genuinely seemed to want to help – well, before last night, anyway. But I’m sure I can talk him round a little.

Niall’s warning that his brother is an unknown entity rings in my ear. Switching on my laptop and accessing The Chronicle’s online archive, I search his name and come up with a plethora of stories – mainly from the petty sessions of the local court. Niall wasn’t lying when he said his brother had a record. When I finally click on the story of how he had plagued an ex-girlfriend over a three-month period, calling at her house at all hours of the day and night and flooding her phone with messages, my blood runs cold.

His solicitor told the court that Declan was dealing with ‘significant mental health and addiction issues following a childhood trauma’. That he had been off his medication at the time of his relationship and break-up with the girlfriend in question.

‘I cannot argue with you that Mr Heaney does not have a lengthy record,’ the solicitor had told the court, ‘but it has not been for this type of offending. My client is accessing support from the community mental health team and is willing to engage with probation services.’

That had been four years ago. There were a couple of occasional drunk and disorderly cases reported on after that. I think of him, needy and lonely, with an air of desperation about him. If I’m honest, I don’t really think he could be capable of stalking me and threatening me. He’s just someone who has fallen about as far as a person can fall and who just wants a friend. I can use that to my advantage.

I scroll through my contacts on my phone until Declan’s number comes up. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I see it is now almost three thirty. I don’t want him to come to my flat again. I’ve not lost my mind completely, but I do want to see him. Preferably somewhere public.

I think of that café in the Rath Mor Centre, where we first shared a cup of tea, and I figure if we move quick enough, it will still be open. It would be ideal.

Tapping the call button, I watch as the call connects, but Declan doesn’t answer. The phone rings a handful of times before it switches to an automated voicemail message. Swearing inwardly, I hang up and send a text message instead.

Declan, it’s Ingrid. Sorry about last night. I was rattled. Give me a call when you get this.

I wait for an answer that I’m sure will be immediate, but my phone stays ominously, and very annoyingly, silent.