Prologue.

Scott jerked awake as his mobile phone went off, pouring out bright light from the small screen, and bathing the room in a luminous blue glow that proved surprisingly blinding.

Scott groaned as he rolled over to face the bedside table, his eyes screwed shut against the brightness wishing his ears could do the same as the repetitive strains of the Nokia theme assaulted his sleep-fuddled brain. He flung out a hand, fumbling clumsily over the bedside table and groaning as he listened to his watch slide across the wood and thud onto the carpet.

Grasping his phone, he squinted sleepily at the buttons before him, pressing one and holding it to his ear,

"Hello?" He mumbled, running a hand over his face in exhaustion.

"Scott?"

He bit back the urge to laugh. Who else would call at such an hour? He yawned lazily, pushing himself up against his pillows with some effort.

"Sir," he replied drowsily. On the other end of the phone, Barnaby sounded as though he'd been awake for hours. Scott looked over at his alarm clock, 2:00am, he sighed.

"Scott, I'm on my way to pick you up, I know who killed Jenna Rigby, and I think Lance Davenport is in danger,"

Scott blinked blearily around his room, trying to establish some focus, and gave a sleepy nod.

"Ok Sir. Be ready in five."

As he shut off the call and let the silence settle back down in his room like a sheet, he resisted the urge to slide back down into the covers and close his eyes. The last thing he wanted was Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby at his front door with the engine running, and foolproof explanation for their latest case, and him in his boxer shorts with his hair in disarray.

He rubbed at his face hard, glad when eyes opened more willingly. He flung back the bedclothes with a sigh of resignation. His boss was a policing genius, a legend. There was no crime that Barnaby could not eventually solve. He did however, have an unusual flare for making breakthroughs in the middle of the night.

It was a short stagger to the chair where Scott had flung his clothes earlier, intending the shirt at least for a good wash. He sighed as he shrugged it on, figuring it would have to last another day, or at least night.

By the time Barnaby arrived, announcing his arrival, and sense of urgency by sitting outside and tooting the horn, Scott was gulping down the last of a steaming mug of coffee, praying for the caffeine to kick in quickly and stop him from falling asleep in passenger seat.

"Sir," he greeted, hopping in next to the Inspector and slamming shut his door.

"Evening Scott," Barnaby wasted little time, roaring off down the road as Scott fumbled with his seatbelt in the darkness.

"Think you'll find it's morning actually Sir," he sighed.

As the car sped along the country road, the light of the moon creeping in through the gaps between the bare branches of the winter trees, Scott let his gaze drift out of the window. Beside him, Barnaby was carefully explaining his thought processes concerning the murder of Jenna Rigby, but Scott was finding it hard to concentrate. His mind drifted back to the dream he'd been having before Barnaby had interrupted his sleep. He frowned as flashes of Cully popped up in his mind's eye. Had he been dreaming of her?

"…So Jeffrey Morrissey killed Jenna Rigby, and Henry Gates in order to conceal the fact that Helen Adams was the illegitimate daughter of George Thompson, and therefore the lawful beneficiary of Olivia Thompson's will."

Barnaby stopped grandly, and Scott turned, blinking at him, aware that he really should have listened to the complete breakdown of the facts, and not just the conclusion.

"So…"

Barnaby, eyes on the road, filled his query without him even having finish the question,

"We need to get to Lance's Davenport's first."

Scott nodded, suppressing a sigh. Why were things never easy in the country?