I remember scrambling to my feet. The shouts of ‘Stop!’ and ‘Raid!’ and ‘Hurry Up!’ and ‘No!’ ringing in my ears, bouncing off the houses around me. I didn’t have time to think about the pain or the cold. I didn’t have time to think about how my wet sock was now slipping into my shoe.

Righting myself, I had run on and I hadn’t looked back to see who was shouting. I’ve never thought about it. Not until now. My memory is too faded to try to distinguish the voices. Male, female, adult or child. Was it Kelly who shouted ‘No!’?

I take out my phone, step back and take some pictures of the stone, of the fresh flowers, the small teddy bear ornament that adorns the grave. The snaps on my phone won’t do the story justice, so I make a mental note to arrange for a professional photographer to take pictures of Kelly’s grave for the book I’ll write. As well as a picture of Declan. Niall. Of the Doherty house. Our old school. Jamesy? Will Jamesy want his photo taken now, trying as he is to conceal his identity?

I decide that when I get home, I’ll start making proper plans for the book. Start planning the structure, now that I can see it starting to come together. Once I have an outline, I can approach my publisher to see if they are interested, but I already know they will be. This has everything. Grief, fear, pain, destroyed lives, a possible miscarriage of justice.

I feel the little flutter of excitement that comes at the beginning of a project. It takes over, for the moment at least, from the feeling that I might just be a little too close to this story.

Chapter Nineteen

Ingrid

‘The wanderer returns,’ Ryan announces as I walk back into the newsroom.

He is holding court in the middle of the room, notepad and pen in hand, no doubt brainstorming with my colleagues about tomorrow’s edition.

‘I was starting to wonder if you still worked here. You left yesterday lunchtime and we’re only seeing you now?’

It has just gone ten in the morning. Ryan’s tone is light, but the expression on his face is anything but. If looks could kill, I’d be a corpse on the floor right now. I’ve no doubt that any number of my colleagues have picked up on it, too. Tommy gives me a sympathetic nod.

‘I was out with the Doherty family yesterday,’ I tell him. ‘For the anniversary piece. I thought it best to take my time and do a good job. I didn’t leave ’til almost five, so I thought I’d just go on home. This morning I was at the cemetery, getting pictures of her grave for the story.’

‘Oh, I bet that was tough,’ Trina says, always one to try to calm any incoming storm.