I don’t think it’s arrogant that I agree. Up close Declan looks much older than our thirty-five years. I don’t say that though. I simply shake my head. ‘Not at all,’ I lie.

‘Ah now, I’m here like death warmed up,’ he says, the thick lines of crow’s feet etched into the side of his face, his cheeks and nose ruddy, showing the signs of someone who enjoys a drink too often. ‘And you’re all glam in your fancy coat and your swish haircut. I always thought ye’d do well in life,’ he says, sniffing loudly, accompanied by a wet rattling sound, which makes my stomach turn ever so slightly. ‘You still writing for the paper? Writing those books of yours?’

I nod. ‘And yourself?’ I ask him.

‘Ah, well, I’m what you would call in between jobs at the moment. On a career break, so to speak.’

He laughs, but there’s a hollowness to it.

‘And Niall, how’s he?’

‘Ah! the prodigal son. He’s doing the very best,’ Declan says, and I think I hear a hint of bitterness in his voice. ‘Teaching in some fancy primary school up near Belfast. Deputy Head, don’t you know.’ He adopts a faux posh voice. ‘Doesn’t come back here as often as he should, according to our ma, anyway.’

‘That’s great that he’s doing well,’ I offer.

‘Aye, I suppose it is,’ Declan says, but there’s a coldness in his eyes that I can’t ignore. ‘Anyway, what brings you up this way? Out on a big story? Is there scandal brewing?’

‘Actually, I’m just doing a wee bit of research. The paper wants me to do an anniversary piece on Kelly’s murder.’

He looks down at his feet. Shifts uncomfortably. ‘Christ,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘Hard to believe it’s twenty-five years.’ He takes one of his bearlike hands from his pockets, rubs at his bearded chin. ‘Christ,’ he mutters again. ‘Awful time. All of it.’

And it comes back to me. He, and Niall, were the ones who found her.

‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ I tell him.

He looks up. ‘Why? You didn’t kill her,’ he says with a shrug, his eyes darting to Jamesy Harte’s old house.

‘But I forgot there, for a moment. I forgot that it was you who found her.’

I watch him for a reaction. Watch to see if he looks open to talking about it more. I can usually get people to talk about things, but this is different. These are people I know, or knew. This was my childhood.

‘Aye, well. You’re lucky to forget,’ he says. ‘I wish I could.’

I remind myself to tread softly.