The sleet came down in angled streaks, half-rain, half-ice, blurring the city into shades of gray. March in Luton Bay still meant winter—streets glossed with ice, sidewalks choked with slush, and a bitter wind that whistled through alleyways like a warning. From the window of her cramped office at the department building, Rosy watched the storm roll across Luton Bay. The skyline blurred behind a veil of fog, the town hiding its sins beneath the weather.
On her desk stood a cup of half-drunk coffee and opened beside it lay her notebook, its pages half-filled. She had written the same word again and again, her pen looping until the circle bulged like a rugby ball drawn in ink.
Helen.
Rosy pressed her pen flat against the page and whispered a prayer under her breath.
LORD, give me wisdom to tackle this. Keep my steps steady.Guide me. Every step of the way LORD.
News of Officer Grant Jones's death had spread like fire through dry grass. Around her, officers speculated in low voices—jealous lovers, a deal soured, enemies in Vice. Some spoke with shallow sympathy, others with mockery thinly veiled as grief. Grant hadn't been popular anyway. A swashbuckling, no-nonsense cop, he'd lived too long in the marrow of Luton Bay's crimes to believe in innocence anymore. But what caught Rosy's ear was not what they said, but the way they said it—none of them cared deeply. Jones's death was another casualty in a town that didn't give a damn in the world.
Rosy shut her notebook, tugged on her gloves, and stood. If answers wouldn't come from her peers, she'd find them elsewhere. Starting with a visit to the runaway wife of Grant Jones.
*
Jones's ex-wife lived across the bay in a duplex that seemed to shrink against the winter wind. The gutters were frozen stiff, the garden long dead beneath a crust of frost. Rosy exhaled a pale cloud of breath and knocked.
The door opened wide enough for a woman to poke her head out. She was a little taller than Rosy's five-seven frame, with red cheeks that made her look as though she were always blushing. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy knot, brows furrowed, mouth slightly pouted — a face that seemed to ask, "Who's disturbing my peace?" She wore a brown sweater that swallowed her arms leaving only the fingertips. She should be in her late thirties.
"Mrs. Jones?" Rosy asked gently.
"Ex-Mrs. Jones," the woman corrected with a brittle tone. "Howard now. What do you want?"
"I'd like to talk. About Grant."
" What about?" Mrs Howard asked impatiently.
" Grant is dead," Rosy said, gauging the reaction her news had on the woman. " He was found dead at his home last night."
Mrs Howard's shoulders fell.
"Oh my …" she placed her palm over her mouth. " Please, come in."
She opened the door fully now and stepped aside as Rosy entered. She clicked the door shut and padded towards the sofa. Inside was warmth that smelled mildly of cinnamon candles. The furniture was modest, lived-in. Toys littered the floor in the corner, and on a shelf rested a framed photograph of a young girl with a missing tooth. Rosy paused at it. That must be Vanessa, Grant's daughter, she thought.
After they sat down on the couch, Rosy lowered her voice instinctively. "I won't take much of your time. I know this is difficult."
"Difficult?" Mrs. Howard laughed bitterly as she sank onto the couch. "Grant and I ended years ago. The divorce would have come earlier than it did. I endured till I got to the borders of insanity. He was more a shadow in our lives than anything else. My daughter saw him once a month. Sometimes less. The job, he said. Always the job."
Rosy sat opposite her, choosing her words carefully. "Did he have enemies?"
"Grant was an enemy," Mrs. Howard said. "To himself. To anyone who tried to care about him. But yes, he pissed people off. Other cops. Dealers. Women."
"Women?"
"He couldn't stay faithful. There was this bar he went to often–Gartoz. Followed him countless times, always surrounded with different women. I was heartbroken. Stopped asking after the perfume started following him home."
The napkin with a name, Rosy thought.
"Did he ever mention someone called Helen?"
"Helen? No. Should I?"
" That was the name inscribed on a napkin by his killer."
"I don't know anyone who bears that name. Whoever she was, she wasn't me."
Mrs. Howard maintained a stoic indifference, as though watching an invisible screen of her ex-husband's acts of infidelity. Rosy noted this even in her eyes. One thing was evident:she knew nothing about his death. And she didn't even care.
"Thank you," Rosy said at last, standing and giving Mrs Howard her card. "If you think of anything, call me."
" I will,"Mrs. Howard hesitantly collected the card as she marched her to the door.