<p><span style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 1)">Someone had once told Detective Inspector Keith Tremayne that some people were lucky and some weren't. </span></p><p><span style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 1)">Tremayne knew only one thing: the man lying dead in a pool of blood had qualified on the lucky after winning sixty-eight million pounds on a lottery ticket, but now his luck had run out.</span></p><p><span style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 1)">Tremayne knew the victim, Alan Winters; even knew his family. The man with all his new wealth had not hidden behind closed doors, fending off the scrounging relatives, the newly found friends. </span></p><p><span style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 1)">That wasn't Winters' style. He had been out and about, driving expensive cars, living well.</span></p><p><span style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 1)">And now he was dead. Tremayne knew the questions would start to roll. </span></p><p><span style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 1)"><span></span>And why was he lying on the Altar Stone at Stonehenge, naked, with his throat cut? Clare Yarwood, his sergeant, had seen the body as well, turned away initially at the sight of it, but had taken a deep breath and stood alongside Tremayne. 'Nasty one, guv,' she said.</span></p>