I think of all the years he missed this sight. Missed the rain and the tang of salt in the air.

‘Jamesy,’ I say. ‘Tell me about the people who are helping you now. The campaigners. Are they happy enough that you’re talking to me?’

He smiles. ‘Well, no. They won’t be. They take on old cases, test the law or something. I can’t remember how they said it. You know what? Sometimes I feel like they talk at me and not to me. Does that make sense? A lot of people like to do that. Well, they – I can send you their details – they told me they’ll do the talking for me and I should stay quiet, but you’re different, aren’t you? I know you. We were sort of friends.’

He smiles, a silly kind of a smile. There’s a childish glint to it and I’m reminded of how he was all those years ago. I think of how trusting he is now, telling me his story. I realise I have a responsibility to him to tell it fairly.

I smile back at him. ‘We were,’ I tell him.

‘So, will you support me? Do you think you can get someone to publish my story?’ he asks, his expression painfully hopeful. ‘Will they tell people that I was set up?’

I blink. I have to be truthful to him. By the sounds of it, enough people have already lied to him.

‘I can’t make any promises, but hopefully. I have a few ideas of who might use it, but you never know with these things. It’s controversial, you know. So, you have to be honest with me. You have to tell me the exact truth. We have to trust each other.’

‘I won’t fib,’ he says, lifting his hand in the Boy Scout salute. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘And your campaigners,’ I add, wary that they probably have an agenda all of their own. ‘You’ve to tell them to trust me and that I know what I’m doing.’

He nods enthusiastically. ‘I will. I promise I will, Ingrid.’

‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘So, let’s get walking, find a quiet spot somewhere and we can start at the beginning.’

He nods. ‘There’s another coffee shop just up the road a wee bit. We can get in out of the rain before we catch our death of cold.’

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I say and again he smiles, as if he’s delighted to have said the right thing.

‘Can I ask you something first?’ he says as we walk.

‘Of course.’

‘You believe me, don’t you?’

‘I think I do,’ I say softly.

He smiles, a genuine smile that stretches across his face, and claps his hands together. ‘That’s good, then,’ he says. ‘That’s really good.’

Chapter Twelve

Ingrid