‘Done that. They’ve refused.’ He sucks on his pen. ‘Apparently, they want to keep the story running all week, so they’re releasing fresh extracts of the interview every day, to whet the public’s appetite. They’re going after the biggest slice of audience share when it’s screened on Thursday night.’

‘What about the family?’

Lawrie shrugs. ‘Not much left. I’ve been trying to find a cousin or an aunt, but no joy so far.’

‘Shannon Carter?’

‘They’ll have tied her in to an exclusive deal.’

‘Her sister?’

Lawrie gives me a look. ‘No one knows where she is. And she’s never spoken to the media. Not a single interview. Mind you, that would be one hell of an exclusive.’ He takes a cigarette paper from his jacket, fills it with tobacco, rolls it, sniffs it and slides it behind his ear. Then he picks up the phone again.

I busy myself by typing Shannon Carter and Carter sisters into the library system and calling up all the news stories they’ve been mentioned in since our computerized archive began twenty-two years ago.

Lawrie looks exhausted. I’d like to help him. It’s my job, after all. To find stories and put them in the paper. But I can’t bring myself to mention it. Colin would force me to write a feature brimming with tabloid clichés about living next door to a House of Horrors. I can see it now.

Headline: MY FRIEND, THE KILLER. Subhead: From schoolgirl to slaughterer.

It’s well past six o’clock by the time I’ve finished going through the cuttings, searching for ideas for follow-ups. Lawrie is still sitting at his desk, his forehead furrowed in concentration, his fingers flying over the keyboard. He’s been granted a reprieve, for today, at least.

A graduate trainee sent out to knock doors in the Carters’ home village in Kent has turned up a distant relative and persuaded him to say a few words. This relative has provided a collect photograph – a never-before-seen image of Dr and Mrs Carter taken by his mother at a restaurant a few days before they were murdered. It’s not going to set the world on fire, but the trainee was savvy enough to get the only copy, so it’s an exclusive, and enough for the front-page story that Lawrie’s been tasked with pulling together.

When I’m sure that Lawrie doesn’t need any more help, I say goodnight. His head is down and he doesn’t answer, but I don’t blame him. When I’m on a tight deadline, the outside world is a muffled echo and all I can hear are the words in my head.