The streetlights buzzed overhead as Rosy zipped her coat and crossed the slick pavement toward the neon glow of Gartoz Bar. Keane walked beside her, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his bomber jacket.
"You sure we're doing this tonight?" he asked, his voice low. " I doubt Vince will be happy to see us."
Rosy glanced at him, her face calm but her mind buzzing. "If we're going to get an honest picture of what happened that night, we need to talk to people while it's fresh. Waiting further means giving them time to edit their memories."
Keane grunted, but didn't argue.
Rosy whispered a little prayer for favour before pushing open the heavy wooden door.
Warmth and sound spilled out immediately — a low hum of voices, the faint clink of glasses, and the rich smell of beer and something else that Rosy couldn't place the smell. It was her first time here, and she couldn't wait to leave. The interior was dim but cosy, all worn wood and brass fittings. No one took notice of them as laughter erupted in one area and loud arguments at another. Perfect. Rosy spotted the man she assumed was Vince behind the counter, polishing a glass with the kind of distracted precision that came from decades in the business. His face registered in Rosy's memory, a face set in the permanent cheerfulness of someone who's constantly trickled at the armpits.
She approached the counter, Keane right beside her.
"Evening," She announced softly, flipping her badge open. "Detective Rosy Lawson, LBPD. This is my partner, Detective Keane Butland. We're here about Grant Jones."
Vince's face transformed into something closer to a grimace. He set the glass down slowly. "I heard," he said, his voice rough. "Bloody shame. He was one of the good ones.My Man, Jones"
"We'd like to ask you some questions about last night," Rosy said, her tone polite but firm. "Can we speak somewhere private?"
Vince hesitated, glancing toward his barmaid who was collecting empty glasses. Then he jerked his head toward a booth in the corner. "Back there. Keep it quick."
Rosy and Keane slid into the booth, the leather seats creaking under their weight. Vince joined them, leaning forward on his forearms.
Rosy pulled out her notebook. "When was the last time you saw Grant Jones?"
"Two nights ago, around half eight," Vince said. "He came in like he always does. Sat at the bar, ordered his usual double whiskey. He was quiet and looked tired."
Keane rested one arm across the back of the booth. "He talked to anyone?"
Vince thought for a moment. "Not at first. He just sat there drinking. Then… yeah, someone came in."
"Someone?" Rosy's pen was still.
"A woman. Young. Mid-twenties maybe. Dark hair, nice dress. Green, I think." Vince frowned, as though replaying the scene in his head. "She sat next to him. They started talking. Laughing, even. She bought him a second round."
Rosy exchanged a quick glance with Keane— silent communication passing between them.
"Did you know her?" Rosy asked.
Vince shook his head. "Never seen her before. Thought maybe she was an old flame, or someone he knew from work."
"Did they leave together?"
"Yeah." Vince's eyes flicked away. "Around eight. She paid for the last drink. Grant looked… happy, actually. Happier than I'd seen him in a long time. I didn't think anything of it until I heard he was dead this morning."
Rosy felt the weight of those words settle in the booth like a heavy fog.
Keane leaned forward now. "You have cameras in here?"
Vince grimaced. "Got one, but it's been busted since before Christmas. Waiting for a bloke to come fix it."
Rosy noted it all carefully, though her mind was already assembling a picture.
" Seems you always have a full house. Anyone who might have noticed her?"
" My bar is home for drinkers in this town," Vince said, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. " There were plenty of customers around that night. I doubt they noticed anything."
Rosy closed her notebook but didn't move to stand yet. "Describe her again, as best you can."
Vince rubbed a hand over his jaw. "Five-eight, maybe five-nine. Slim, classy looking. Long hair — dark, straight. She had that look about her… not local. Like she didn't belong here."
Rosy nodded slowly. That last detail stuck in her mind. Someone who didn't belong but walked into a bar full of off-duty cops with confidence.
"Thanks, Vince," she said finally. "If you think of anything else, call me. Here's my card."
Vince took it and, before sliding out of the booth as his cheerful countenance returned, he said: "Find whoever did this, Detective. Jones didn't deserve to go out like that."
When he was gone, Keane leaned back and blew out a long breath. "Well, that's something."
Rosy stared down at her notebook, feeling a knot form in her stomach. "Yeah. And if what Vince says is true, this wasn't random. I feel she targeted him."
They stood and made their way toward the door, nodding briefly at the barmaid as they passed.
Outside, the night air felt colder than before.
"What are you thinking?"Keane asked, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
Rosy paused by the car, her breath visible in the glow of the streetlamp.
"I think we're looking at someone who knows exactly who she wants," she said quietly. "And last night, she wanted Grant."
For a moment they stood as each processed the information they'd received, the icy coldness of the town pressing in around them.
Then she unlocked the car.