A week after the letter, he sat in his study drinking whisky, the third or fourth too many of the night. Though it was past eleven, it would not be the last.
Across the room, he had installed a television on which to watch the news: CNN, Sky News, the BBC.
“Come to bed,” Jan said from the doorway: “Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”
She crossed the room, stood behind him: he was almost thirty-six, balding and what was left of his hair was turning to grey.
“Later,” he muttered. “I want to see one more news.”
For a moment she thought of trying to dissuade him but then she shrugged, gave up.
The story broke just as Colin was about to switch off for the night. The cameras cut to a picture of a farmhouse, open fields with a light covering of snow, woods on a rise, police cars, TV vans, a
