Brian Brade hastily wiped away the stolen tear, which had crept down his cheek and left a clear trail on a face plastered in dirt and sweat.
‘I know it’s difficult to hear,’ came the beleaguered voice of Oliver Baird, but his words sounded faint, as though he were speaking from a great distance and not from the other side of the metal table. Brian stared at him, speechless, and then looked to the others seated either side of him; Cathy in her diamond-studded dress, po-faced as always; Jim Thornton with his typical everyday expression, pursed lips and narrowed snake-like eyes; Ben Connor jittery and with some unspoken angst etched into his pale face; and finally Christopher Reynolds, whose puffy red cheeks were dappled in tears of his own. In one large trembling hand he clutched a bottle of vodka, which he quickly knocked back, sploshing most of the liquid down his front.
