I put my eye to the peephole and saw a glamorous-looking woman – her no-doubt designer sunglasses pushed to the top of her smooth blonde bob. She fumbled through her green leather handbag and pulled out a notebook and pen.

When I opened the door, she thrust one hand out to shake mine.

‘I’m so very sorry to bother you, especially given the hour,’ she said, her face tilted to one side, her tone abjectly apologetic. ‘I’m Ingrid Devlin, from The Chronicle.’

‘Can I see ID?’ I asked.

She looked a little shocked to be asked but reached into her bag and took out her purse, pulling out a blue National Union of Journalists membership card, which confirmed her credentials.

I eyed her suspiciously. ‘What can I do for you, Ms Devlin?’

‘Look, my sources have led me to believe you may have been with Clare Taylor when she died. That you may have been the woman who called for help.’

‘Your sources?’ I asked. ‘And who might they be?’

I’d been assured my details hadn’t left the incident room at Strand Road and wouldn’t go beyond the four walls of the Taylor house.

‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ she said, ‘but I do know you visited the Taylor household on Friday.’

‘And? Is a woman not allowed to pass on her condolences any more?’ I was on edge; Ingrid Devlin’s presence on my doorstep wasn’t a welcome one.

‘Of course,’ she said sweetly. ‘And it’s very kind of you to do so. I’m sure the entire experience has been exceptionally traumatic for you.’

I wanted to say something but feared that if I did, I’d say too much. I’d let slip something that would confirm what her ‘sources’ had told her.

‘I think the Taylor family are the people experiencing trauma here – and I’m just as sure reporters knocking on doors asking questions probably doesn’t help them, either.’

‘Oh, goodness, absolutely. And I certainly wouldn’t pressurise that poor family into talking. But you must know, Mrs O’Loughlin, that people are scared out there. This is a particularly nasty murder.’

The sun was shining in my eyes and I put my hand up to shield my face.

‘I can see you’re getting blinded by the light there, Mrs O’Loughlin. Maybe if I came in we could talk inside over a cup of tea or a glass of cold water. I’m roasting today in this heat. And, of course, our chat could be off the record, if you want. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’

She was so saccharine sweet that my teeth hurt just listening to her. I’d seen her type before. Many times. Never trusted any of them.