He shrugs. ‘Just think about what I’m saying,’ he says before he reminds me to lock up when I’m done.

I mutter ‘Arrogant arsehole,’ under my breath as he leaves, resisting the urge to give a two-fingered gesture to his retreating figure.

My feature article complete, and filed in the system for editing, I turn my attention back to researching the Doherty case. I want to find out as much as I can about Jamesy Harte’s campaign to have his conviction overturned before I speak to him. But our archives don’t give much to go on. It’s not a case that people have wanted to throw their support behind, not until recently, anyway.

I figure the best way to start is to look at any contemporaneous court reports from the trial, of which there are many. Putting my cardigan on, I make my way back to the archive room, which is now cold enough that it could double as a fridge if it wanted to. I lift the heavy bound tomes of the relevant year’s papers and carry them back to the newsroom, where I make use of an abandoned desk to flick through them.

Time passes. I’m not sure how long. The reports are a mixture of long legal arguments and details that make me feel sick to my stomach. I’m sitting, pen in hand, making notes, when a loud rattle of thumping at the doors of the office startles me. Ryan will have locked the door on his way out, brought the shutters to half mast, but it’s not usual for anyone to come near the building in the evening. And certainly not at this time, I think, looking at the clock on the wall to see that it has passed nine.

Despite the thudding of my heart, I try to convince myself it’s just someone making a nuisance of themselves. If I ignore them, they’ll go away. Still, my attention has been pulled from my work and I’m too jittery to focus on it. Another loud bang, followed by a rattling of the shutters, has me grabbing my phone. I can call the police. I probably should. But then Ryan really would get on his high horse about lone working regulations and I’d not be permitted to stay on past hours any more.