‘Was it?’ I took a deep breath in. ‘Last night his house was fire-bombed, and this morning he has been told by the District Council they can’t rehouse him because he doesn’t have any dependent children living with him. He’ll have to find his own accommodation until his house is repaired.’

Patsy picked up her large white cup of swirling hot chocolate. ‘That doesn’t seem too bad–at least he’s alive. Wouldn’t anyone be grateful for that?’ I shook my head. ‘No landlord will give him a room–who would take the risk of a flaming bottle of petrol landing on the doormat?’ I asked. I bit into the flourless chocolate tart; delicious though it was, it couldn’t remove the bitter taste from my mouth. ‘At least with a guilty verdict, Kenny Cameron would have had a roof over his head and three square meals a day.’

‘You can’t mean that,’ she said.

‘Of course I do,’ I nodded, pushing another bit of chocolate goo into my mouth. ‘In prison, guards would have watched out for his safety, but who’ll take care of him now?’

She wiped her mouth delicately with a white linen napkin. ‘Surely that’s not your problem?’

‘If it’s not my problem, then whose is it?’

Patsy Barnes stared into my eyes, noting luggage under them. ‘You don’t sleep well, do you?’ she asked.

I laughed and shook my head.

She placed her hand over mine. ‘Get me a face-to-face interview with Graham Marshall.’ She paused to make sure she had eye contact, than went on earnestly, ‘…or Kevin Milne. I’ll see what I can do for Kenny Cameron, Brodie. An article in the local paper might put pressure on the District Council to rehouse him.’

‘That would be great, Patsy, I’ll take you up on that.’ I smiled. ‘But there’s no way Dr Graham Marshall,’ I emphasized his name, ‘will agree to meet with you. He maintains he’s innocent and he has every faith that I will get him off these murder charges.’

Patsy Barnes’s face fell. Her reaction was greater than I would have expected from a professional who knows you can’t win them all. Perhaps she had money worries and had built her hopes up that the Marshall trial would bankroll her out of them. I was too soft. ‘I’ll try I’ll see what I can do,’ I said. ‘But the murder of Renee Smith has made him jumpy. When he’s released, he’s going to have to build another new life for himself, and I doubt he’ll get much help this time.’

‘There’s always someone willing to help out,’ she replied. ‘Always someone willing to get people what they deserve.’

Despite being a writer, I wondered whether Patsy Barnes’s experiences of life had been anywhere near mine. Maybe I had been landed with the world’s only soft journalist.