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Slack.com slash DHQ. It is December the 4th and 1926, and the grey light of dawn, a detective

picks his way over a desolate hillside. This is Newland's corner, a beauty spot in the

south of England, just outside London. The ground is waterlogged and strewn with jagged

branches. It's only four miles from the town of Gilford, but it feels like the wild and

inhospitable landscape of a gothic novel. Accompanied by police constables, he trudges towards

an abandoned car. The vehicle, a Morris Cowley, has its bull-nosed bonnet buried in a thornbush,

its headlamps glaring into the gloom. Beyond the car lies the cliff edge of a chalk quarry,

where the land drops away into a void. Peering into the vehicle, he sees a fur coat on

the back seat. As he opens the door, he notices a small suitcase too. He opens it up. Inside

is a random collection of women's clothing, an evening gown, a pullover, two pairs of

almost identical shoes. He concludes that this woman packed in a hurry. Then he notices

a sticky patch on the steering wheel. He touches a fingertip to the liquid and smells it.

He glows. The driver must have hit her head when she crashed. He ignores the squalls of

rain as his mind grows turbulent with questions. Why did the driver veer off the road and cross

the field? Had it been her intention to crash into the quarry and end her life? If so, why

pack a suitcase? If not, and this is an accident. Why bring a fur coat only to abandon

it on a December night? And the most pressing question of all? Where is the driver now?

...