The Detective arrived back at his flat, his eyes moving to the paper sat on his desk. It was another medical report, and written on the top of it in bold letters was Aidan Jefferson’s Autopsy. He scanned it quickly and found it confirmed all he had thought. Jefferson had beenpoisoned by batrachotoxin. He had died of a cardiac arrest 27 hours after it had entered his blood stream. It also included notes that Colonel Jefferson had taken his sleeping pills every night.
The Detective put down the notes and took a swig of the alcohol in his hand before noticing it wasn’t whiskey. In his hand he was holding a new shop bought wine glass filled with red wine. On the desk he noticed a note, it read: I am sorry about the wine glass Detective Hunt. Here is a new, classier one. I find a change of taste isn’t always as bad as you think.
The Detective put down the note and he picked up the Colonel’s last packet of pills. A change of taste? He thought. He noticed the dose in each sleeping pill was 1,000mg then he glanced back at the medical report and saw the dose of batrachotoxin that the Colonel had taken was the same.
“Shit!” The Detective swore as a loose sleeping pill fell from it’s pocket and into the red wine, leaving the wine to splatter all over the Detective’s face and white shirt. He stopped and looked at the pill packet again before hurriedly noting something down on his paper. He then went to pick up his whiskey but found another piece of paper laying beneath the flask. It read: Kit Jackson, owner of the house rented by John Howie. +65 24571
The Detective picked up the phone and dialled the number.