Chapter One

Criminal Investigation Division Sergeant Seth Mornay jogged across the narrow road, leaning forward to keep icy November rain from blinding him.

His partner, Constable Claire Gillespie, had already arrived at the scene of the head-on collision just outside of Cordiff, a small village near enough the coast to lure in tourists, but not so close that it was overrun in the summers.

A Nissan four-by-four was upside down in the stream that ran parallel to the road. The Nissan had been pulling a battered, windowless horse box, which was also upside down. The other half of the head-on collision was a silvery blue Fiat with a crushed front end. It'd been spun around from the force of the collision and was now on the other side of the road, facing the wrong direction.

On the far side of the accident, parked on the grassy embankment next to the road, was a dark green Mitsubishi with HARRIS VETERINARY CLINIC painted on the driver's door. The vet was towing a white horse box. In front of the Mitsubishi was a construction crane—the sort used to lift heavy loads to second-floor building sites. The crane was parked directly in front of two Grampian Police cars. An ambulance and a mud-splattered tractor, hauling a wagon burdened with rusting acetylene tanks, were also at the scene.

"Where's the Nissan's driver?" Mornay asked Claire.

Claire's gaze took in his appearance: the gapping anorak, the slice of wrinkled shirt, and the tie that didn't match jacket or shirt. She fixed on the nick he'd given himself as he'd rushed through his morning shave. He'd have changed into a clean suit, but he'd forgotten to pick them up from the cleaners.

"How late did Gordon have you working last night?" she asked.

Laina Gordon was their new detective inspector, brought into their office to temporarily fill the void their former supervisor, DI Byrne, left when he was transferred earlier that year. Gordon was on the fast track to a carpeted office in Aberdeen, the top office if she got her way. Her father's position as deputy justice minister of the Scottish Executive didn't hurt her career goals.

"My shift ended at two."

"But did you leave when Taylor came on duty?"

"Taylor brought tea and rolls." He didn't need to tell her he'd fallen asleep after the early-morning meal; she could see he was still wearing yesterday's suit. Taylor woke him at nine when his pager went off.

A gust of wind scoured Mornay's cheeks, numbing them. He crouched to see his reflection in the car's window, in case there was anything he could quickly mend. He'd been working grueling hours since ten-year-old Matthew Adair's disappearance two weeks earlier. The long hours were taking their toll; his face was gaunt and pale, despite his dark coloring. His deep-set eyes always gave him a brooding expression, even when he was well rested. Before his service in the Royal Marines, his features could have, at best, been described as stern. Now, after being rearranged by several necessary surgeries, his features had a ferocity that seemed almost primeval. He pushed his damp hair off his forehead, quickly combing it with his fingers, trying to tame the waves the damp had brought out.

He turned away from the window as the crane operator started barking directions at Constables Dunnholland and Sahotra. The shivering men were standing on the edge of the stream's embankment, holding a heavy, rusted chain between them. On the crane operator's command they scrambled down the slippery embankment, managing to remain upright and keep their grip on the chain.

Mornay pointed to a couple huddled under an umbrella next to one of the police cars. The unpredictable gusts of wind were threatening to turn their umbrella inside out. "They were in the Fiat?"

Claire nodded. "Called from their mobile. Up from the borders. Both were near hysterics, because they couldn't find the driver of the truck. They said it came flying around that curve." Claire pointed to the curve just up the road. "There was no room or time for them to move out of the way."

The woman had a bandage on her forehead, and the man was pale. Given the condition of their Fiat, they were lucky that was the extent of their injuries.

"Shouldn't someone seat them in the back of a car, out of the rain?"

"They didn't want to get back into a car just now. I don't blame them."

"Is the horse box empty?"

"We don't know. The doors were crushed when the Nissan flipped. We need to cut it open."

Which explained the farmer and the acetylene torch.

Just then, a plump man in worn tweeds stepped in front of Mornay. "My name's Harris, are you in charge here? Because if you're in charge here, I want to make a report to your supervisor." The man's mouth was nearly hidden by a bushy white mustache. He must have been close to sixty, but he had the burly build of a man twenty years his junior.

"You'll have to leave the area," Mornay said, barely sparing him a glance.

"Your lot called me here over an hour ago, and I've seen nothing but incompetence since I arrived."

"We've got procedure—"

Copyright © 2004 by Moira Maus