This first investigation finds DJ Smith, undercover officer for HM Revenue and Customs and her trained sniffer cat Gorgonzola, on the trail of a heroin smuggling ring operating in and around Edinburgh. Their first port of call is the White Heather Hotel, owned by the formidable Morag Mackenzie who rules her domain – and her spineless husband – with steely efficiency. And it is in these comfortable surroundings that DJ pursues her dangerous undercover work encountering a cast of memorable characters including American golfing fanatic Hiram J Spinks, the glamorous Italian Signora Gina Lombardini, and the not so glamorous self-styled gastronome extraordinaire Felicity Lanelle, a plump lady of majestic proportions and flamboyant manner, prepared to stop at nothing in pursuit of the perfect recipe.

Beneath the innocent surface of the country house hotel eddies a sinister undercurrent.  One death follows another.  Which of the guests specialises in making murder look like accident?  The killer waits a chance to strike as sea mists swirl round the ruins of Tantallon Castle and night falls on Cramond Island. A deadly game of wits is played out on the lonely Isle of May, and reaches a climax amid the sand dunes bordering the internationally renowned Muirfield golf course.

Published by Allison & Busby £6.99

ISBN: 978-0-7490-8059-4

A buttressed tower loomed through the mist, its red sandstone walls an extension of the cliff face.  Her mouth a round O of terror, she seemed to be trying to lever herself out of the narrow window.  Both arms were flailing in a frenzy that battered her hands mercilessly against the rough walls.  Her body shuddered and convulsed.  From her lips came a peculiar mewing sound.  Sixty feet below, as the sea surged and fell back, sharp rocks bared their teeth in anticipation. 

In her frenzy to escape she somehow managed to force her body through that slit of an opening onto a narrow ledge.  Her face was pressed against the rough stonework of the tower.  She had lost her shoes.  One stockinged foot scrabbled for purchase on the crumbling sandstone, the other dangled helplessly over the sixty-foot drop to the rocks below.

       All her weight was being taken by that one foot on its precarious hold.  As we watched, she teetered, the grip of her clutching fingers weakened.  For a moment she seemed to recover.  Then with a terrible slowness, first one hand, then the other slid away from the wall in the ghastly travesty of a farewell wave.  Arching backwards, she toppled down…down…to the waiting rocks below.

To follow in the footsteps of DJ Smith 

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