I deserve the glass of wine I’ve just poured myself. I’ve my laptop open in front of me on my small kitchen table, a notebook to my side. There’s also a folder of newspaper cuttings and archive material from the original Doherty coverage, and some coloured Post-its so I can plan in earnest.

My book editor, a very serious woman by the name of Jane Thompson, had wasted no time in replying to my proposal about the case and has asked me to put together an in-depth editorial plan, as well as some sample chapters. She is confident, if it is as good as my previous non-fiction works, that she will be able to get it through the acquisitions process.

It might be a problem if the Dohertys are reticent to talk any further, but hopefully there is enough in what they have already told me to fill a couple of chapters. I had mentioned to Bernie that I may work on a book, I’m sure of it, so our interview material is fair game.

I try not to think about Liam Doherty’s face. His pleas just to let his daughter rest in peace. That he doesn’t want her to be part of any media feeding frenzy. I admit it makes me feel uneasy, especially if I take the line in the book that I believe Jamesy Harte to be innocent, but I can’t allow my feelings to get in the way of my work. That’s not how journalism operates.

At the moment I’m trying to piece together the information I have alongside the sources I’m likely to gain access to. It would be great to see the original police reports from the time. I wonder if the investigating officer is still on the force, or if he has retired. I’d love to interview him and get his take on it.

I should go through official channels for this information, but it has served me well in the past to have a friend or two inside the force who occasionally acts as an unofficial source. He can go digging without raising any red flags. He’s great for tip-offs, getting background info, finding out what the general feeling in the force is. Yes, Detective Constable Mark Black has proven to be quite useful in the past. That’s why I was so flustered when he showed up at my flat after the break-in.

It doesn’t hurt that he looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. No one would ever suspect him of passing on information to a journalist. He’s a nice guy. A bit naive, but I suppose that serves me well. Occasionally, I do feel a little guilty playing on that naivety, and on his fairly obvious crush on me. I’m not cold-hearted. It’s not his fault he’s not my type. Too clean-cut. Too good.