Jean Samson looked at the ‘No Smoking’ sign;  once, twice, three times. The grandfather clock on the landing struck midnight. Outside, the darkness was almost total; just the lights of distant farmhouses and an occasional car driving along the single road into and out of Grimshaw Moor.

‘What a forlorn place this is! Still, it suits my purpose! No distractions for any of us!’

The folder lay open on the bed, the papers taken out of their transparent casings and spread across the quilt in no obvious order. Could these murders be solved after all this time? Was the cold case unit a good idea? This would be make or break for her career. She needed something big, and this could be it. Samson thought back to dinner. The team had been ill at ease, probably because of her p...

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