‘SORRY TO HAVE KEPT you, Mr Gallagher,’ Rafferty apologised as he and Llewellyn entered the otherwise empty staff room.
Gallagher shrugged. ‘No matter. I’ve nothing to go home for. My wife died recently,’ he explained, ‘and to sit there alone only rubs my nose in how much I miss her. The apartment’s just somewhere to eat and sleep now.’ He smiled grimly at Rafferty. ‘Funnily enough, if you can believe it after what you’ve learned this morning, I’d rather be here.’
Rafferty nodded. He’d been the same after his wife Angie had died, though not for the same reasons. Guilt had driven him out of the home they had shared, where memories of her and the echo of their acrimonious rows were on every surface and on every stick of furniture; the dent in the door where she’d hurled a heavy ashtray at
