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Jane McKenna’s tone is conciliatory as she sits in my living room and explains what they’ve discovered in the days since Toby Sheridan was arrested. She still hasn’t apologised for not believing me, but at the same time she hasn’t questioned me about why I didn’t tell her I recognised his photo that day in the police station. The unspoken agreement is that we’re even.
‘His mother died when he was thirteen,’ she explains. ‘Cancer. It’s an impressionable age to go through the pain of your mother dying. By all accounts, she doted on him. She was a campaigner for social justice. She’d been very active in the sixties when she was younger, and that vibe had never quite worn off. She’d obviously made an impression on him, more so than most mothers do. Toby was an only child. His father disap
