Late September in Silverdale is gorgeous, it really is. The trees in Sunset Gardens are in bloom, and if you feel like taking a walk in the city, the night lights are absolutely unforgettable; if, of course, you can ignore the screaming, the swearing, the mugging, and the traffic. If you can manage that without ending up in Fort England, then you're meant to be here.

My name is Katelyn Griffin, and I'm a Detective and a Forensic Investigator with the Silverdale Crime Lab. I'm in charge of my team and they're all good people, and even better forensic scientists. I'm lucky to have them, and I like to think they enjoy having me around. Our cases are frustrating, but we all work hard to get them solved. Most days we enjoy our jobs, but every now and then, things go south. Facing death on a daily basis isn't exactly a weekend at the Michelangelo.

This morning is just like any other. I'm rushing around my flat looking for a shoe I could have sworn I kicked off by the door last night. I find it under my bed

of course

and grab my bag as I run out the door. Running down the stairs seems faster than praying for an express lift, so that's what I do. I'm not exactly running late, but I will if the cab gets stuck in traffic; and chances of that happening are pretty high.

It's three minutes before eight when I walk through the doors of the crime lab, daring anyone to make a comment about my less-than-timely arrival with my eyes. No one does, see, my temper is legendary and no one has the guts. Or, you know, maybe it's because I'm not late yet.

Shelton Forbes is the first to greet me this morning, and he does so with a timid smile and a progress report on the case that's been on his plate for two weeks now. The fingerprint he finally managed to get a subpoena for hadn't matched the one left at the crime scene, and he doesn't look happy. I feel sorry for the poor bastard; we've all had cases that just didn't piece together like we'd hoped.

"Sorry, buddy," I say, handing him the file back. "Keep looking. You'll find something."

He scoffs. "If I'm lucky."

"Don't give up."

He walks out of the office and the first thing that I notice is the pile of files on my desk, all vying for my attention. But, since I'd honestly rather do dumpster duty than sit at a desk all day, I let them marinate a little longer. They'll be just as urgent when I get back, so they'll keep. If I'm lucky, they'll disappear and I'll never have to deal with them. However, being a scientist, I don't think that's likely. But that doesn't mean I won't keep my fingers crossed.

I've been at my desk for maybe a minute when my phone rings.

"Griffin."

"Detective Griffin, we have a body for you," the dispatcher informs me and I grab a pen and a sticky note to scribble the address. "86 Village Road. It's an abandoned warehouse. Detectives Williams and Harris are on their way there now."

"Okay, give us half an hour."

In fifteen minutes exactly, Detectives Menzi Mabaso, Taryn Moss, and I are on our way to the crime scene. Mabs is better at this whole traffic thing, as opposed to me—who takes Uber everywhere—and Taryn, whose version of traffic in Alexandria is a tractor and a cow. Needless to say, we let him drive without another word. It's a division of labour that works for everyone.

At nine o'clock on the dot, we arrive at the crime scene.

A couple of uniforms have it taped off from the curious public: and we walk in to find Major Crimes Detectives Thembelihle Khayalethu Williams

TK for short, and for obvious reasons

and Diane Harris staring at the body. And right off the bat, I know I have a long night ahead of me. Our victim is tied to a chair and shows obvious signs of heavy and ruthless abuse. His face is a giant amalgamation of bruises that make even yours truly cringe: and I'm pretty confident I can look at a dead body longer than most.

His throat has a gaping gash that goes almost from ear to ear, and I'm sure it's the only kindness that's been paid to him. When the carotid is severed, a person will bleed to death in less than three minute. After what looks like hours of torture, it must have been a relief to go so quickly. I'm sure the poor bastard would have preferred to not go at all, but life doesn't always give us that option. I can only hope that it's some consolation to nab the killer and throw him in a fuckin' hole. That's what I've believed in all my life, and that's why I do what I do.

"Any ID on him?" I ask Diane as I come to stand beside her. She nods her head, auburn curls bobbing, and hands me a black leather wallet.

"Sydney Zondi," she tells me and I look at the driver's license in my hands. The body in front of me looks nothing like the picture. "A bit of the old organised crime connection if the rumours are to be believed."

"Organised crime?" I ask, but the concept is nothing new. This is Silverdale, and it takes all kinds. "What kind of role does he play in the family circus?"

"Enforcer," TK says. "He's been tagged for assault more than a few times and narcotics once or twice, but any murder charges he's been brought up on have mysteriously vanished. Courtesy of a lawyer that's way out of his pay bracket."

"Family lawyer?" Mabs asks, leaning behind the chair where the victim is tied, to take a closer look at the restraints used to hold him.

"I can only guess," TK responds and turns to me. "What do you think, Kate?"

"Multiple contusions and abrasions on the face," I observe from a few paces away. My eyes rest on the victim's left hand, the digits of which have been twisted at odd angles. "Three broken fingers. The wound on the neck looks like the kill shot. Tim can tell you more when we get him back to the morgue."

"Looks like the killer is right handed, from the direction of the cut," Mabs says from the floor. "It narrows nothing down, of course. Just saying."

"Thanks anyway," Diane offers.

"Kate, we have some DNA over here," Taryn calls from several metres away, near a giant wooden desk that looks like it's seen better days. It most likely came with the building.

"What kind?" I ask, starting over to her.

"Skin," she says, collecting the evidence in a vial that we'll take with us back to the lab. She kneels down to look at the front edge of it, where a rusty nail protrudes out of the carpentry. "Looks like blood, too."

"Nice catch."

I watch her collect the evidence, and a crevice in the top of the desk catches my attention. I put on a pair of latex gloves, and run my finger over the slit in the wood. It's narrow and triangular; if my conjecture is anything to go by; I'd say someone had stabbed a knife into the wood while they were waiting to use it.

Reaching for my kit, I take a cast of the marred spot and find it just over three centimetres deep. The shape of the cast cautiously agrees with my theory of a knife, but I'll hold onto it to compare it to blade variations later. Tim will give me a good estimate on the kind of blade, and then we'll narrow it down with the cast from the desk. If nothing else is accomplished today, we'll at least know our murder weapon within a few hours.