Morse's Jaguar kept an easy pace with the patrol cars ahead of him, but it did not feel fast enough. He was practically tailgating the lead patrol car as they screamed up country roads, blue lights flashing. It was still early in the morning, but Morse felt a horrible tension.

"Come on," he murmured, impatiently.

Eventually, the three cars drew up a narrow road and squealed to a halt outside a neat row of hillside holiday cottages, all empty and locked up for the winter. Hoarfrost turned the grass to silver and made their breaths cloud as the officers scrambled from their cars.

"Over here!" shouted the female sergeant.

Morse and the others jogged over, and Morse swore, and then snapped; "Get an ambulance up here!"

One of the officers ran off to obey. Morse glanced up – the garage door had been rammed from the inside, and there was a large gap between the bottom of the garage door and the floor, where it had lifted over the bonnet of the car. Morse could just about see the crumpled front end of the car, and something about it looked horribly familiar… it was Lewis's car, he realised.

Morse knelt down, and peered under the garage door. A familiar figure lay nearby, and Morse reached out, just able to grab Dr. Russell's hand. A flood of warm relief rushed through him when he felt her fingers close around his, and her head moved slightly to look at him in dazed confusion.

"Dr. Russell… Greyling… can you move?" Morse called to her.

He could smell the stink of car fumes in the garage, but the car engine wasn't running – the gap forced open by the impact of the car had obviously let in enough air for her to breathe. She managed a brief nod, and Morse reached into the garage, helping her to crawl out though the narrow gap. She collapsed onto the pavement, gasping, coughing, and Morse cradled her in his arms as she tried to draw breath to speak.

"Lewis," she eventually gasped out, "he's… he's in the car… it… it was Jackson…"

Morse shushed her, as one of the other officers stepped in, and helped Dr. Russell to her feet, taking her over to one of the cars out of the cold winter wind. Morse went back over to the garage, trying to peer through the gap – Dr Russell had been able to slide under there, but there was no way Morse would fit through. He glanced around, and caught sight of the female sergeant in the trench coat. He had no idea what her name was, so he just raised his finger and pointed.

"You! What's your name?"

She looked up at him; "Hogan, sir."

"Can you fit through there?"

"Are you calling me fat?" Hogan was already shedding her black coat.

Morse simply glared at her, as she lay down on the concrete and slithered under the gap.

"Oh, shit," he heard her say, coughing slightly as she spoke.

"Report, sergeant!" he snapped at her, through the gap.

"Sir," she replied, "garage was locked from the outside, otherwise sealed up, looks like the car was left with the engine running…"

Her voice became muffled, and Morse, peering awkwardly under the gap, could see her leaning into the car.

"It looks like Sergeant Lewis used the car as a battering ram to try to get out," Hogan shouted, "he's unconscious, but I don't think it's too serious…"

She broke off, coughing again; "Sorry, sir, it's still a little foggy in here."

"Can you get him out?"

"Safer not to move him, I think, sir," Hogan called back, uncertainly, "with this impact, he might have hurt his neck."

Morse craned his neck to peer under the gap, lying flat on the concrete. He could just about see Hogan leaning into the car, and Lewis slumped face-forward over the steering wheel. Hogan caught him looking and came back to the gap.

"Sorry, sir – could you pass me my coat? It's freezing in here."

Morse grabbed the crumpled heap of soft leather, and passed it through the gap. Hogan grabbed it, shook it out, and then draped it over Lewis's back. Morse finally stood up, as the distant wail of an ambulance siren split the air. He watched as it rumbled up the track, before parking up and two paramedics leapt out. The first immediately began to tend to Dr Russell as the second jogged up.

"There's a fire engine on the way with cutting gear," he explained, quickly, as he started shoving his kit bag under the gap and peeling off his thick winter jacket.

Morse watched as the man wormed his way under the garage door, and Hogan suddenly reappeared from under the gap, taking deep breaths of fresh air.

"He'll be okay, sir," she assured him, patted her pockets, cursed, and then coloured slightly, "ah – sorry sir. Left my cigarettes in my coat pocket…"

"Haven't you inhaled enough noxious gas today?" Morse grunted.

Hogan grinned, and wondered off to cadge a cigarette from one of her colleagues. Morse grew ever more impatient, as he joined Dr Russell, sitting on the tailgate of the ambulance. She had a red emergency blanket around her shoulders, and an oxygen mask over her face. Morse gave her a gentle smile, as she reached out, and he gave her a gentle hug.

"Are you alright?" he asked her.

She nodded, reached up, and took away the mask; "Lewis?"

"He's fine," Morse replied, reassuringly, hoping that he wasn't lying.

Eventually, the fire engine arrived, and a large angle grinder made short work of the garage door, revealing the full mangled mess of the front end of Lewis's car. Morse stood back, allowing the two paramedics to do their work. Lewis was carefully extricated from the wreckage of the car, and eased onto a stretcher. One of the paramedics leaned over him, and then straightened up.

"Chief Inspector Morse?" he called, glancing around.

Morse looked up, and then made his way over to the stretcher.

"Make it quick, we need to get him to hospital," the medic told him, shortly.

Morse simply grunted and waved him away, leaning over the stretcher. Lewis saw him, and pawed off the oxygen mask that had been strapped to his face.

"Sir," he gasped, "Jackson…"

"We know it was him, Lewis," Morse cut in, "what happened?"

"Don't know, sir," Lewis tried to shake his head, and winced, "but he's watching…"

"He's here?"

"He said… he'd be watching…"

Morse straightened up and gestured to the two paramedics; "Get them both out of here – and look after them! Hogan!"

"Sir?" the sergeant trotted over, quickly finishing her cigarette and flicking it into the gutter.

"Get some more men up here and get this place searched," Morse snapped, "Jackson could still be here – Lewis certainly seemed to think so."

The two of them watched as the ambulance pulled away, lights flashing, but the siren mercifully silent. Hogan turned. There were three other constables attending, spread out over the area, and the firemen who were already packing away their kit. She put her fingers to her lips, and gave an ear-piercing whistle that made Morse flinch. The three constables, however, responded like Pavlov's dogs to a bell.

"Split up," Hogan told them, "search these houses and garages – they're holiday lets, so there's probably a key hidden somewhere. Be on your guard – Jackson might still be here."

Morse watched as the four of them spread out, beginning a methodical search. He pulled his winter coat tighter around himself for warmth, and leaned against the side of his distinctive Jaguar, deep in thought. Suddenly, there was a shout from one of the constables, and the other three converged around one of the other garages.

"Sir!" Hogan was waving to him; well, at least he hadn't been summoned with a whistle.

Morse turned, and crossed slowly over to the garage. He had a nasty feeling that he knew what was in there. A brief glimpse inside confirmed his worst suspicions, when he saw the tied up black bag. He growled a curse, and then turned on Hogan, who had regained her leather coat and lit up another cigarette, staring in horrified fascination at the black bag, knowing what it contained. The bloodstains in the garage spoke volumes for the contents. Morse looked anywhere but at the bag, as he spoke.

"Get the coroner up here. Now."

~*~