It was Sunday, August 27, 1995, around 9.30am if I remember correctly, and Veronica Guerin was at the door of my hotel room in Cork with the Sunday newspapers in her hand.
I had only been in a bed a few hours and Aileen, who I’d married the previous afternoon, was fast asleep, unaware we had a visitor. “Have you seen the papers yet?” Veronica demanded, smiling. “Have you seen this? Wait until you do.”...
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