There is a fire blazing in the hearth and the TV has been muted. I can see Phillip Schofield is very animated about something. I slip off my coat and sit down, taking in the dated décor around me. The pictures on the walls – of all the Doherty family. Liam and Bernie on their wedding day. The three Doherty boys, JP, Christopher and Liam Jr, and, of course, Kelly. She was the baby of the family. The only girl.

There are more pictures of her on the walls than anyone else. The pictures look dated now, too – have that fuzzy quality of snapshots taken in the late Eighties and Nineties, slightly blurry and faded over time. One professional photo of Kelly hangs above the fireplace – her hands together in prayer, her blue eyes looking directly at the camera. Her expression is solemn as she stares out of the mahogany frame, the picture of innocence in her first communion dress. The same dress she was wearing when she was murdered. Despite the heat, which is verging on overpowering, I shiver.

Bernie walks back into the room, with a tray laden with two mugs, a small bottle of milk and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits.

‘Do you take sugar?’ she asks. ‘Or are you sweet enough?’

‘Sweet enough,’ I reply, reaching out to take a mug from the tray and refusing the offer of a biscuit. ‘Is Liam joining us?’ I ask.

She sits down, her tray now resting on the coffee table in the centre of the room.

‘I don’t know. He doesn’t handle this well, you know. He’s not mad about the idea of this story. It’s hard for him, you know. Still. He’s up at the cemetery. Do you know, he never misses a day. Sometimes he even goes more than once, if he’s having a bad day. And with her anniversary coming … and that man wanting to appeal …’ Her voice breaks and she drops her gaze for a moment, staring into her mug, before taking a deep breath and looking back up at me. ‘Well, it’s extra hard at the moment.’

‘It must be,’ I say. ‘I can only imagine.’

I try to age Bernie Doherty, putting her early sixties at the very most. But she looks older. Like she’s had enough now. Her face is lined with wrinkles, her knuckles swollen and arthritic. Her eyes look as though they have been permanently bloodshot from the moment she heard about her daughter until now.