The sheaves of paper on my table are mocking me. My laptop remains closed. Normally I’d get up, make myself a cup of coffee then sit down and get straight to work.
This morning, I’ve made the coffee, but I’m curled on the sofa cradling the mug in my hand and I don’t know where to start. It has all become so complicated and I don’t know who I can trust any more.
This is darker than I ever thought it could be. Darker certainly than anything I have tackled before. I had tossed and turned all night. Thinking about the Dohertys and their new nightmare. And about Declan and the dejected look on his face as he left. I’d been unnecessarily cruel to him.
And as for Jamesy? I’d try to call him later. Maybe arrange to meet him again. I’d make sure no one could possibly have any clue about our meeting. I’d have to be careful about it. I doubt whoever was behind the attacks on my flat or my car would give me any more chances before I, too, might feel the kind of retribution Liam Doherty had.
Taking a sip of coffee, I realise it has long since gone cold. The bitter taste makes me wince and I get up to make a fresh cup, which I realise I will probably just stare at again until it, too, goes cold.
I’ve just flicked the kettle on to boil, when my phone starts to ring. It’s Ryan.
‘Ingrid,’ he says when I answer. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘I’m okay,’ I lie, because I’m still mortified for crying down the phone last night.
‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘There’s a press conference at Strand Road Police Station at noon about the incident last night. I’ve arranged for Tommy to cover it. I just wanted to make sure you knew.’
I take a deep breath. ‘There’s no need for Tommy to go. I’ll go myself.’
He pauses. I hear an intake of breath.
‘Ingrid, are you sure? Things are getting heavy.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘And I’ve only half an hour to get ready if I’m to be there on time, so if you don’t mind …’
‘Okay. If you’re sure. Just get what they say. File the copy. Leave it at that. You don’t have to make this bigger than it needs to be. It’s not worth it. We need you safe. I need you safe,’ he says.
There’s a hint of affection in his voice. I’m shocked by it. This time it’s not about health and safety or insurance. It’s about his need to have me safe. It’s possible that he genuinely does care about me. While that might feel too uncomfortable a shift in our dynamic, right now I’ll take it. I need to feel like I matter to someone in the middle of this madness.
‘I’ll get the copy up on the website as soon as I can,’ I say to him. ‘And I’m okay, Ryan. I’m not taking any chances.’
The truth is, of course, that I don’t know if I’ll be taking any chances.
I’m ready to go in just twenty minutes, which gives me enough time to walk to the police station, given that my car is still in Foyleside car park.
It’s only when I’m standing at my front door, opening the locks and getting ready to go out, that I realise my heart is thudding and I’m holding my breath. What has always been so familiar to me now feels scary. I don’t know what I will find around the next corner. I don’t know who to trust. I don’t want to go out, but I have to.
I force myself to exhale, trying to calm the shuddering of my breath. I remind myself it’s daylight. I will be walking along a busy walkway. I will be safe. I am heading in the direction of the police station. It will be fine.
Putting one foot in front of the other, I fight back the fear. I’m just doing my job. I’m safe, I tell myself. I’m safe.
Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll start to believe it.
I’m not the only reporter at the police station. I didn’t expect to be. There are representatives here from other newspapers, from the radio and from the TV. They are huddled together when I arrive, no doubt talking through what each of them has heard so far. I don’t think it’s a figment of my imagination that they appear to stop talking as soon as I arrive. They look flustered.
‘Ingrid,’ Aidan Devine from the BBC says. ‘Nice to see you. We didn’t know if you would make it or not. This is mad, isn’t it?’
‘Why didn’t you think I would be here?’ I ask, bristling at the question.
I can see some of the other reporters look down to their feet, desperate not to catch my eye.
‘Well,’ Aidan says, ‘I heard you were in a bit of trouble yourself last night. Your car? And that incident at your apartment block? Do you think it might be linked to all this?’
I shrug. ‘I suppose the police will tell us that,’ I say coldly. ‘But if you’re asking in some sort of roundabout way if I’m responsible for what has happened to Liam Doherty, then no. I’m not. I just told their story. That’s all. Any of you would have given your eye teeth for that story, too.’
‘You’ve been talking to Jamesy Harte, from what I hear,’ Nuala McLaughlin from one of our rival papers says as she pushes a stick of chewing gum into her mouth.
For as long as I’ve known Nuala, she has been trying to quit smoking, and hiding the telltale smell of cigarette smoke on her breath with Wrigley’s Spearmint.
‘That has nothing to do with anything,’ I say.
‘I think Liam Doherty might say differently,’ Nuala says.
She says it in a manner to sound like jokey banter, but I know there’s a sting in her tail.
‘The Doherty family have no problem with me,’ I say, and am extremely grateful to see the doors open to the police station and the police press officer, Sue Clarke, walk out ahead of DI Bradley and DS King.
Their expressions are set, serious and sombre. Sue Clarke thanks us all for coming out, especially on such a cold day. We nod and say it’s not a problem, even if it is. She hands out paper copies of the statement and if I’m not mistaken, she gives me a sympathetic look. I imagine she knows exactly how I’m caught up in all this mess. I’m sure I’m the talk of the station by now.
Doing my best to show no reaction whatsoever, I take it from her and cast my eye over it. It doesn’t say anything that isn’t already out in the public domain, and part of me wishes I’d stayed at home and asked Sue simply to email the statement over.
Sure, I wouldn’t have been here for any questions, but it’s not like I don’t have a degree of an inside track on all of this. I set my phone up to record then join Aidan and Nuala and all the others in a huddle in front of the police. DI Bradley, of course, will do the talking. He stands there, officious-looking in a black overcoat, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly coiffed.
‘If we could have your attention, please,’ Sue says, even though we are all already clearly focused on the people in front of us.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ DI Bradley says. ‘At around 20.00 hours last night, police from Strand Road received a report of a serious assault in the Creggan Estate. A man in his sixtes had been set upon by three unknown males at his home in Malin Gardens. There, he was subjected to a brutal and terrifying ordeal in which he was savagely beaten before his attackers poured a kettleful of boiling water over him.
‘The attack occurred in front of his wife, who the men restrained. The man was taken immediately to Altnagelvin Hospital, where he is currently receiving treatment for his injuries.’
He pauses, for dramatic effect, I imagine.
‘The men are described as being in their thirties, and of average height and build. They were wearing dark knitted balaclavas, dark-coloured jackets and jeans. Two of the men had local accents. The other is said to have had a Belfast accent. They left soon after the attack, walking in the direction of Broadway.
‘Police are appealing for anyone with information about this attack or for anyone who may have seen anyone acting suspiciously in the area to get in touch. We would say again that the nature of this attack was particularly depraved, and the police will do everything in their power to find those responsible and bring them to justice.’
DI Bradley nods to Sue, signalling that he is finished. He has barely taken a breath before Aidan asks his first question.
‘Are the police willing to confirm that the victim of this attack was Liam Doherty, the father of murdered schoolgirl, Kelly Doherty?’
‘At this stage, the victim of the assault has asked not to be identified,’ DI Bradley says.
‘But the dogs on the street know who it is,’ Aidan says. ‘There are videos on social media from outside the Doherty house.’
‘As I have said, the victim of the assault has requested that he is not identified at this stage,’ DI Bradley repeats.
There is a collective sigh of frustration.
‘Has Jamesy Harte been spoken to by the police regarding this matter?’ Nuala asks.
‘At this stage there is nothing to indicate that Jamesy Harte is in any way connected to the events last night,’ DI Bradley says. ‘And we’d really appreciate it if the media didn’t facilitate the spreading of rumours to that effect. I’m going off the record here, folks. This is a very sensitive case, not only in terms of what actually happened last night, but also because of the issues surrounding the Doherty family. No doubt, you’ll be aware of Mr Harte’s announcement of his intention to try and clear his name, and the increased media attention on the story as a result of the anniversary of Kelly’s death.’
I feel myself colour. He’s not blaming me, exactly. But he might as well be all the same.
‘Our priority at the moment is to find the men responsible and bring them before the courts,’ he said. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your time here today and your cooperation on this matter,’ DI Bradley says, cutting off Nuala before she can ask another question.
‘That’s all we have for today,’ Sue says in a voice that makes it clear that the proceedings are over.
DI Bradley turns and walks back towards the police station. DS King stays where she is, though, and as I slip my phone back into my bag, she approaches me.
‘Ingrid, do you mind if we have a word? Why don’t you follow me in?’
I glance towards my colleagues – God knows the last thing I want is for them to see me being led into the station, in any capacity.
‘Give it five minutes and come back in. I understand this is sensitive,’ she says, following my gaze. ‘But we really do need to talk to you. There’s been a development.’
‘About my car? Did the CCTV footage show anything?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, well. I don’t know. I think the area was too poorly lit to catch anything of note. But that’s not what we need to talk to you about. It’s about Jamesy Harte.’