The convoy looked wrong against the backdrop of Grimshaw Hall.

Two marked cars. One unmarked. A SOCO van. And Donald May’s battered pool vehicle bringing up the rear like a pensioner trying to keep pace with athletes.

As they pulled onto the gravel, the place felt… watchful.

No Joan Grimshaw on the steps this time.
No staff in the windows.
No clatter from the kitchens.

Just heat and silence and the low hum of generators somewhere out back.

Riggs killed the engine and stepped out, hand automatically going to the small of his back, as if checking for a weapon he wasn’t technically carrying.

“Place looks shut,” he said.

Fizz stood beside him, squinting up at the Hall. “Feels shut. Like a coffin with good lighting.&rdqu...

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