Another Competition Entry?

Forgot to mention I entered a 300 word story as part of the Theakston Crime Festival via the Lincolnshire Echo. I liked the prize - a copy of the 20 crime novels shortlisted for the Peculier prize. We were given the first paragraph and told to finish the story. Here is my attempt:

Next to the body lay a bottle of Theakston’s Old Peculier and an upturned book; it was a crime novel and the already lurid jacket was spattered with real blood……

The Inspector scratched his bald head. The candles that illuminated the library danced in the moist reflection. He could have done without this. His wife was attending a literary dinner and he had promised to accompany her. She would be less than happy and probably withhold her wifely delights; which would be a shame as her cooking was legendary.

Also legendary was the bottle. With a gloved hand the Inspector tenderly reached out. Holding it up he could see no fingerprints, but the dark, smooth liquid held his gaze. Turning the bottle the luxurious liquid stirred: teasing him in the flickering shadows. He hardly noticed the clump of red hair around its base.

As for the book and the body, the Inspector knew both. It had been in all the papers. A debut detective novel based in a brewery in the Yorkshire Dales. He could see where the life had left the author. The depression in the skull and the sticky mess that congealed across the face underlined the head wound for all to see. The Inspector felt his mobile vibrate. Where are You? Michael O’Cultt cancelled. I’ll be home in 20 minutes. This was clearly a suicide, the Inspector concluded.

Twenty minutes later he was at home with a glass of something dark and agreeable. The body of the ‘promising’ author was at the morgue waiting to be collected by the publishers. Another wannabe whose life burnt out too soon. The Inspector smiled and lifted his glass. ‘Cheers’ he said out loud. Silently giving thanks to the fuggle hop. This smooth tasting nectar would never fall into obscurity.