Wednesday, April 26

 IT is 5.30am when I bring the last of the bags down to the car. We should be getting on the road but before I leave I pause to gaze at the portrait of Flora that hangs on our bedroom wall. The backdrop is the Isle of Skye where she is buried alongside her grandparents. In her hand, she clutches a posy of wild flowers. I smile. Her image is just as I remember her. I think of her vitality, her humour, her quick wit. That devastating smile that never failed to melt my heart. As I look at my daughter, I whisper: "This is it, Flora, the final piecing together."

 Rightly or wrongly, I have pushed and pushed for this trial to take place. I need to know that Flora would be proud of what I have done. I feel that she is. I could not tolerate the death of my beautiful, talented daughter being pushed under the carpet. I have done everything in my power to ensure that she and the other victims are not forgotten: now, finally, there may be some resolution. Some truth and some justice, I tell Flora. As I close the bedroom door, I pin a badge to my lapel. It says: "PanAm 103. The truth must be known."

 I set off with my wife, Jane, for the Harwich ferry to the Hook of Holland in driving rain.

 Onboard, I watch as the English coastline fades and think of the constant anger within me. Anger that security warnings of a bomb on a PanAm plane, given a fortnight before Flight 103 was blasted out of the sky, were ignored. Anger at the incompetence that allowed such an instrument of death to be carried on to the plane. Anger that the systems that should have been in place to protect Flora, were not. I have carried this anger for almost 12 years. Finally, we are getting somewhere. I am filled with relief.

 At last, we arrive at the flat. Jane is speechless at the state of it. There is hardly any furniture, no cooker, the electricity isn't working and the lavatory is broken. In silence, we tour the rooms. It had been pretty grim when I first viewed it but somehow the furniture hid its utter bleakness. Jane says nothing. It is so dark that we can't see properly - which is just as well, I think. Jane takes my torch, the one I used for peering down people's throats when I was a practising doctor, and shines it across the kitchen. Its pencil thin beam picks out the dust and dirt, the broken sink. Jane just sighs and says she is glad that she packed so much cleaning equipment. 

Thursday, April 27

 AGAIN, neither of us slept last night. Kind friends have given us some furniture but we have to sleep on a mattress on the floor. My back is aching. We have a one ring electric stove and Jane, trooper that she is, manages to make porridge. We sit on the bed and wolf it down. 

The good news is that the sofa that friends have found for us is arriving today. We also have a cheap carpet so we don't have to sit on concrete any longer. Just as the sofa arrives, I get a message that the preliminary hearing is being held this afternoon. There is no time to get the sofa upstairs so we leave it in the foyer with a note saying it isn't junk and is not to be thrown out.

 I am the only relative in court; the others want to wait until the trial begins next Wednesday. I can hear my heart pounding as the two defendants are brought into the courtroom. My nails dig into my palms. But, to my astonishment, I feel none of the emotions that I expected. Perhaps it is because I have studied them so many times in photographs and videos. I am staring at the men who may or may not have killed my daughter. I feel nothing but numbness. I watch as their families, their children, reach out in greeting. I feel a tremendous surge of determination that what happens in this courtroom over the next year must be scrupulously fair. There will be no joy in seeing these children separated from their fathers if these are not the guilty men. There must be justice for Flora and for the defendants. In my head, I hear the lines from a John Donne poem: "On a high hill truth stands and he that would reach her about and about must go."

 I feel a tremendous sense of relief. I have fought so hard for the things that I have, hopefully, been able to influence. Like airport security. But now matters are out of my hands. The search for truth now lies with the judicial system. I can relinquish my burden.

 Friday, April 28

 WHEN I returned to the flat yesterday evening, the sofa had been stolen. Jane was stoic, as ever. She had spent the day cleaning the flat and stocking up on food from the local supermarket. Jane is increasingly worried about money. The flat is costing almost £300 a month and each return ferry trip will be £100. It all adds up and the campaign has already cost thousands. 

Part of the grieving process, for me, was to have the perpetrators of this barbaric act brought to justice. It has meant that our lives have become public property. We are no longer a country doctor and his wife. We are now a couple defined by the night that murderers slaughtered our eldest child. Jane's way would have been to grieve in private. But she accepts that I have needed to take more positive action. She tells me that it was this trait that first attracted her to me when we met as students at Cambridge. To her credit, she has never tried to rein in my actions. She knows that this is what I must do for Flora.

 Wednesday, May 3

 NEITHER of us slept last night. Today is the first day of the trial and we both tossed and turned, thinking about Flora. I am acutely aware that I have been on the verge of obsession for a long time. When Flora died, I was engulfed in raw pain. But that has turned to determination for justice. I worry about the effect on my family. I have put such pressure on Jane and yet she has shown such strength. I worry, too, about my children, Catherine and William. They loved their sister dearly but there must be times when they have felt frustrated that the family's focus is forever on Flora. Times when they have wanted to scream: "We are still here." But I know they are with me. 

It is stiflingly hot, 77F. We had both brought warm clothes but thankfully Jane has found some short-sleeved shirts. We hold hands as we walk into court. Jane tells me later that she was struck by how the defendants have aged. They are greyer, more gaunt. She says she had an overwhelming desire to walk over, bend down and quietly ask: "Did you do it? Did you take Flora from me?"

 She is constantly plagued by thoughts of Flora's last moments. Those 30 seconds it took to fall to earth. She has counted them out many times in the kitchen of our home. She cannot get over not being with her firstborn when Flora needed her most.

 I gaze at the defendants. Did they do it? I don't know. I have chosen my seat with care - directly behind the witness stand so that the judges are reminded that I am here. I am utterly taken aback when a special defence is launched. The defendants have cited two organisations and 10 individuals whom they say were responsible for the bomb. I had thought that the trial would cut through the conspiracy theories. 

I listen to the details of how the bomb was allegedly planted. Again, I wonder if Flora is proud of me. I have prevented your death becoming a mere statistic, I tell her. I think of the last time I saw her. I insisted on seeing her body. I touched the little mole on her toe and cut a lock of her hair. But she was so lifeless. I think of how she would be now had she lived. A glittering career, babies. Anger wells and I clasp Jane's hand.

 Outside the court, there is a round of quick-fire questions from reporters. I sat up late last night learning a statement but my bottle goes and I read it instead. I am grateful for their intelligent and gentle questions.

 When we get home we eat scrambled eggs and fall onto our mattress from exhaustion. We knew today would be tough. There will be a whole year of this for me.

 Thursday, May 4

 THIS morning's evidence was given by the people of Lockerbie. Their graphic accounts, paint a vivid picture. I realise for the first time that these people, too, have lived through hell.

 This evening, we receive good news. The mayor of Zeist has found us a sofa. It is a relief not to have to sit on the floor; my back is aching.

 Friday, May 5

 EVERYONE but me seemed to know that the names of the victims were being read out in court today. I was grateful that Jane wasn't there. All those familiar names that I didn't know eleven-and-a-half years ago. Now their families are my friends. I know the intimate details of their lives. I wait anxiously for Flora's name. I am nervous, afraid that the officials will stumble over it. I want it to ring out pure and true. It takes three quarters of an hour, and then she is past in a second. Flora McDonald Swire. I wonder who, here, knows that the McDonald is after her ancestors? 

As the list is read, I lock my gaze on the faces of the accused. I am looking for signs of guilt, any small gesture. They remain impassive. As I leave the courtroom, I need a moment alone. Images of Flora fill my mind. All I can hear in my head is her name: "Flora, Flora, Flora."

 Saturday, May 6

 TODAY I am writing a letter to Robin Cook, the Foreign Secretary. This week has taught me that I was right to refuse to allow the Lockerbie victims to be forgotten. Right to fight for a trial. I intend to tell Mr Cook how grateful I am that it is, at last, happening. 

Tomorrow we are going to see the bulb fields and Jane will be returning home to England on Monday. I'm dreading her leaving.