I’m at a loss for words. My brain can’t think fast enough to come up with an acceptable retort.

‘So, the police called me yesterday afternoon, said they wanted to come and take pictures of the car park, check our lighting – stuff like that. I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. Can you imagine my surprise when they tell me it’s part of the ongoing investigation into the targeted harassment of one of my own reporters? The one whose car was vandalised in our car park.’

I colour. ‘I didn’t want you worrying,’ I lie. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

‘Not a big deal? Someone breaks into your flat and daubs a threat on the wall. And someone attacks your car at work and it’s not a big deal?’

‘I’m dealing with it. It’s not affecting my work, so I didn’t see any need to fill you in.’

‘You took Tuesday off and now you’re telling me it’s not affecting your work? C’mon, Ingrid. Why can’t you just admit this is bigger than you? Do you actually not care that you are putting yourself in danger’s way?’

‘We both know that threats come with the territory,’ I tell him, looking him directly in the eye.

‘Of course. Badly written letters. Poisonous emails, perhaps, or the odd drunk shouting abuse in the street. But this, Ingrid? You’re an intelligent woman – or at least I thought you were. This is a dangerous escalation.’

‘It honestly doesn’t bother me,’ I lie, trying to still the jittery feeling growing in my stomach, threatening to spread out around my body, making my legs jiggle or my eye twitch. ‘We can’t be intimidated into not running a story.’

‘But we’re not running the story, Ingrid. We’re not going to talk to Jamesy Harte. I’ve made that clear. I want the piece for tomorrow written as straight as you can make it. Not a single mention of Harte’s campaign to have his name cleared. I will be editing it myself, so God help you if I see anything that shouldn’t be there …’

I want to tell him to go to hell. If we were anywhere else but in this office, I would do.

‘Maybe if you listened to what Jamesy had to say, you’d change your mind about him. People don’t always get it right, you know. The law doesn’t always get it right. If you heard what he told me, how he was set up. If you could see how broken he looks …’

‘See how broken he looks?’ he asks, his face darkening. ‘So you’ve seen him, then? You’ve spoken to him face to face. Surely he’s not in Derry, is he?’ He stops, looks at me directly. ‘Is that where you were on Saturday? Before you came to my place?’