The ice cubes cracked as the whisky drenched them in the heavy crystal glass. Jack liked that sound. He watched as he poured, and noticed that his hand was trembling. He poured a little more, just to calm his nerves. He had come home after lunch after giving that junkie whore Mags Gillick a bit of a duffing up to make sure she kept her mouth shut. Christ! He could have choked the life out of her. Now, in the tiled kitchen of the surburban detached house he and his wife Myra had lived in for thirty years, he was trying to keep calm. He had to get a grip of himself. This should be his sanctuary. Nobody could touch him here.