Grant's house was a beehive of police activity. It was between two similar buildings: a simple bungalow, brick-red, with a driveway that led to a garage at the right wing. Yellow police tapes already cordoned off the building, flashing red and blue lights painting the night with urgency. Rosy found a space in the clearing and killed the engine. The night was cold and the loud cries of an owl pierced the air from a distance. It was the tail end of winter and Rosy felt her teeth gearing up to chatter. She dug her hands into her jacket and walked briskly towards the building. Two patrol cars sat out front, their bonnets still warm, thin trails of steam curling into the night like ribbons before disappearing.
A pair of uniformed officers stood by the entrance, speaking in low tones until they noticed Rosy approaching the foyer.
"Detective Lawson," one of them said, straightening quickly. "Scene's contained. The CSU's inside."
Rosy managed a quick nod as she stepped inside.
The room was a little crowded as the Forensic team moved around quietly in hushed tones. The air was tired and smelled of whiskey. The fluorescent bulb above shone with an indifferent glow, as though unaware that a life had just been taken right from under its nose. A young man was taking photos from different angles.
Then she saw Grant.
His lifeless body lay sprawled beside the coffee table, his eyes closed, a serene expression masking the events that had ended his life. Pieces of shattered glass surrounded him, like rose petals spread around the grave of a loved one. Rosy, eyes narrowed, read the room, noting each detail like a pianist picking out notes by ear. Grant Jones's living room looked exactly as one might expect of a middle-aged cop living alone in Luton Bay — tidy, efficient, and almost impersonal. The furniture was sparse but well-kept: a modest sofa, a polished coffee table with a single coaster, and a shelf of old VHS tapes stacked neatly beneath a bulky television. On the far wall hung a single framed commendation, the glass cracked clean through the middle.
Rosy narrowed her gaze on the bottle of whiskey standing on the table, a glass beside it yet to be drunk. She felt a chill run down her spine. Detective Frazier, one of the cops on dispatch, was standing beside the body, arms crossed and a grim look on his face. His jaw worked silently, chewing on disbelief. Two officers approached and waited at a close distance with a body bag.
"What've we got?" Rosy asked, slipping on a pair of gloves.
Frazier straightened and heaved a sigh when he saw her. There was an air of practiced calm about him, tangible even through his tiredness.
"Rosy," he greeted, his tone clipped. "Glad you made it. Found forty minutes ago. A neighbor called it in—heard a crash, thought it was a break-in. We cleared the scene. No sign of forced entry."
Rosy swallowed hard. "Cause of death?"
"Too early," Frazier replied. "But CSU found a trace of residue in the glass," the officer said, glancing at his notepad. "Something mixed with the whiskey. One for the labs, I'd say."
"They didn't say what the residue was?" Rosy asked.
Frazier shook his head. "No. Couldn't identify it yet."
Rosy crouched beside the body, her penlight flicking across the scene. No bruising on the knuckles. No defensive wounds. He hadn't fought. Going with her intuition, whoever had been here, he'd let them in with open arms.
"The neighbor said he heard a crash?" she enquired, her voice low.
"That would've been the table. Him hitting it on the way down," Frazier replied.
Rosy glanced toward the door. "He still around?"
" Yeah. Out on the porch. He's pretty shaken up though, poor sod."
She stepped outside and, turning her gaze to her left, she could see a middle-aged man in a worn brown cardigan standing near the window wringing his hands, shoulders trembling.
"You're Mr Hargreaves?" Rosy asked gently.
He nodded, voice low and uncertain. "Jim Hargreaves, yeah. I live in the next building.
" Can you recall what happened?" Rosy asked.
Hargreaves, with trembling lips, recited for the second time that night what he'd seen. "I was making tea when I heard this loud crash — like glass breaking or a shelf tipping over. I didn't give it much thought at first. But then everything went quiet, for a very long time."
"How long before you checked?"
"Couple of hours maybe. I got worried. Got this eerie feeling that something was wrong. Knocked a few times. No answer. The door was unlocked, so I pushed it open just a bit. Saw him on the floor. I—I didn't go in. I just called the police straight away."
Rosy studied his trembling hands. "You did the right thing. Did you see anyone leaving? A car, maybe?"
He shook his head. "No, nothing. Didn't hear anyone come or go. He was a quiet man. Kept to himself mostly. Nice enough. Sometimes we'd chat on the landing — football, weather, usual things."
Rosy gave a small nod, slipping him her card. "If you remember anything else, no matter how small, call me directly. Day or night."
Hargreaves took the card with visible relief as Rosy turned back inside.
A forensics tech lifted the whiskey bottle into an evidence bag. Rosy's eyes followed it, a gnawing thought turning in her chest. She crouched down again beside Grant's body. If residue was found in the glass that meant one thing—poisoning. And poison wasn't rage or impulsive:if Grant was poisoned, it must have taken a lot of planning, and patience.
"Someone else was here," Rosy murmured.
Frazier gave a noncommittal grunt. "Possibly. Or he poured himself two. You knew Jones. Did he drink alone?"
"He didn't have many friends," Rosy said carefully. "But he wasn't the type to drink to company that wasn't there."
"You're suggesting he had… female company?" Frazier's eyes flicked to hers, searching.
Rosy didn't answer. The thought had already taken root in her mind. A woman. A stranger. She could see her clearly now, slipping the poison into his glass with a smile. She felt the prickle of unease at the back of her neck.
Rosy shook her head, raising the untouched second glass on the table. She looked at it as a scientist would look at a test tube.
" He was certainly not alone. Someone was here. The question is who?"
Rosy knew that Grant was not the outgoing type. He was near antisocial, always minding his own business. She was the only one he spent the most time with at work. He'd told her about his marriage problems. Could this be the reason? A bitter woman punishing her husband for his many sins he committed the time they were together. A case of hell has no fury than a woman scorned?
"You think he was, poisoned?" Frazier asked.
"Very likely," Rosy said.
" We found this at the kitchen counter," Jane Longstaff, a member of the forensic team approached, fully clad in white coveralls, shoe covers and gloves. Even in her mask, she looked beautiful, her hair tied behind her in a ponytail.
Rosy stood slowly, her eyes narrowing on the napkin Jane held up in her gloved hands. On the napkin was a lipstick smear, the single name written in cursive: Helen.
"Well, whoever she was," Rosy said, taking the napkin in her hand. "She wanted us to know her name."