‘And nobody cared that she still sucked her thumb sometimes when she was really tired, or that her favourite dessert was Viennetta. All people knew, and cared about, after she died was what that Jamesy Harte had done to her. If he’d touched her. Done things, you know.’

I’d nodded because I did know. I knew that some signs, abrasions and bruising, had been found on Kelly Doherty’s legs, but there was no evidence she’d been sexually assaulted. No evidence of penetration.

‘The thought that they’d had to check, examine her private parts, even in an autopsy, made me feel she’d been violated anyway. I know that’s irrational, but I can’t help it,’ Bernie had told me.

‘Then, how they spoke about her. She became a collection of bruises and fractures. She was so much more than that.’

At the time, I’d been shielded from the worst of the information about how Kelly died. All I’d known was that a bad man had killed her. He’d hurt her. Then I’d been told it was Jamesy Harte and I remember how that seemed so strange to me, because the Jamesy I knew wasn’t a bad man.

Kelly’s face stares out from a picture on her stone. It’s the same picture that hangs in the Dohertys’ living room. I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to reach out and touch it – so I do, and then I trace my finger along the golden letters spelling out her name and I close my eyes.

A memory comes to me. It had been raining that day, although it had stopped by the time we went out to collect our nuts and apples. My mother had asked me did I want to wear my welly boots to keep my feet dry – but no. I hadn’t wanted to. Princesses don’t wear welly boots, I’d reasoned, so I’d slipped my feet into my black patent school shoes and left before my mother could force me to change.

I’d been running down the street, away from someone or something, when my foot landed square in the middle of a wide puddle, which was deeper than it had appeared. Ice-cold water and silt had splashed up around me, soaking my foot through my shoes and dirtying my socks. I was flung forwards, dangerously close to losing my grip on my plastic shopping bag which, by then, was half full.

I remember that I’d put my hand out to block my fall – the same hand I was now using to stroke the letters of Kelly’s name. It had landed, palm down, onto the wet, gritty road. I can still feel the burn and sting as a layer of skin was scraped from my body, tiny stones embedding themselves into my flesh.