Chapter 32
OCTOBER 31st, 1888. 1.30PM
DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR CHARLES COLLINGWOOD had drunk too much the night before. Had drunk far too much. The bottle of scotch he had opened earlier in the evening was now down to the last inch. He felt wretched, torn apart with worry and fear for the fate of Lucy. He was thick-headed, his mouth foul and tainted, heavy-eyed and queasy-stomached from the scotch.
He groaned and laid his head into his hands as he sat up in his bed, his heart throbbing evilly from the worst hangover he could ever recall. He had not gone to bed until almost 4am, he groaned with the aches and pains of a night sat hunched over the desk in his study consuming far too much whisky.
His stomach heaved and roiled, knotted tight with tension and dread. Slowly he got to his fee
