Detective Inspector sat alone in her flat. She quietly sampled the neat scotch from the glass held in her lap. The Chinese take-out, bought on the way home, lay scrapped in the bin, half-eaten, cold and glued together. Deposited out of sight in the dishwasher were the plate and cutlery. They lay with the rest of their set.
She detested dirty plates left in view. Before her on the coffee table, positioned directly in front of the couch where she reclined, were scattered notes and files which pertained to the case and the bottle of scotch. The light amber liquid had begun to take effect.
