Foster sat at his desk in his small office at the back of his house. His wife had taken Valium and was lying on their bed, crying, Lucy’s favourite teddy bear, a tattered brown thing with one eye, clutched in her arms.
He knew she needed to be alone, time to work through her grief, to come to terms with what had happened. It was her way. He had learnt that through twenty years of marriage.
So, he sat at his desk, a large glass of Jack in one hand and a family photograph in the other.
The alcohol did not help. If anything, it made things worse.
He went to take another sip but paused and looked at his computer screen. A message alerted him that he had mail. A quick scowl almost scorned the machine for the interruption.
He placed down both the whisky tumbler and the photograph, then lean
