Page 2 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

A few weeks earlier

Gretna Green

Later, the forensic pathologist would note that the entrance wound in Naomi’s back was the size and colour of a fresh cigarette burn. There was no exit wound – the solid knot of the hipbone had flattened and stopped the bullet.

People still get married at Gretna Green.

Three and a half thousand couples a year.

It’s a nod to the runaway weddings of the past when an eighteenth-century English law forbade anyone under the age of twenty-one to marry without their parents’ consent.

Gretna Green was an accident of geography, the first village English couples reached when they crossed the border into Scotland.

Overnight, a thriving wedding economy sprang up, and businesses keep the tradition alive today.

It’s romantic, a lovely way to start your new life together.

But when Naomi collapsed into her husband’s arms, her life’s egg timer was almost out of sand.

A bridesmaid, thinking the heat and the heavy white dress had caused her friend to faint, went to help.

Then she saw the blood. Lots of blood. She screamed.

And then it seemed like everyone was screaming.

It was a full minute before anyone thought to dial 999.

It wouldn’t have made any difference. By the time the paramedics arrived, Naomi had been dead for seventeen minutes.

The man in the ghillie suit didn’t make mistakes.