‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. It was just, well, I didn’t know where else to go …’ His voice cracks a little.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ I ask him, the heavy sinking feeling still leaden in my stomach.

‘I … erm … it’s Derry, ye know. I asked around. Heard you lived down here and then looked at the names on the buzzer. Took a chance it was you.’

There’s something about how he says this that makes me shiver. Am I really that easy to find? The people who painted my wall found me easily, and now Declan, too. Unless … No, that’s stupid. I’m letting the events of the last few days get to me too much. Declan wouldn’t have any reason to warn me off talking to Jamesy Harte. Sure, he’s told me he’s not convinced Jamesy is guilty.

‘You could’ve texted or called,’ I say as Declan roughly toweldries his hair.

I can see water pooling slightly at his feet. His trainers are as soaked as the rest of him.

Looking at me with a curious expression on his face, he says, ‘I never thought of that,’ as if it actually is the first time such a possibility has even crossed his mind. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

I could give him the real answer, of course, and say it’s a bit strange, but I’m still trying to get a feel for why he is here and what state he is actually in.

‘Of course not,’ I lie. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and make some tea.’

‘Would you have anything stronger?’ he asks, bold as anything, and I lie again.

‘Sorry. All out. Just tea here. Coffee if you prefer.’

‘Tea will be grand,’ he says, looking around, taking in my flat in all its glory.

It’s not huge by any means. In fact, it’s quite small, but I’ve spent a lot of money getting it just how I like it. Scandi-inspired, with just a smattering of cosy comforts, it’s always proven to be a haven of relaxation for me, from my pale pink velvet sofa, which cost more than a month’s salary, to the Eames-style dining chairs.

‘Nice digs you’ve got here,’ he says before shuddering with the cold.

I realise there’s no way I can let him sit down on that sofa with wet jeans on.

‘There’s a dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door,’ I tell him. ‘If you want to take your jeans off, I can throw those and your coat in the dryer or at least hang them on the radiator.’

Again there’s a delay, as if he’s just realising how wet he is, before he nods and gives a little laugh. ‘Aye. I suppose that might be an idea.’