The fog clung to Landore like a shroud, muffling the clatter of the old steelworks and the distant hum of Swansea’s city center. Detective Inspector Eira Morgan stood at the edge of the Tawe River, her breath visible in the damp November air. The call had come in at 3 a.m.—a body found in the shadows of the abandoned Morfa Copperworks. Landore, once the industrial heart of Swansea, was now a maze of crumbling warehouses and forgotten dreams, the perfect place for secrets to fester.

Eira’s torch cut through the mist, illuminating the crime scene. The victim, a man in his late thirties, lay sprawled across the cracked concrete, his throat slashed with surgical precision. His eyes were wide, frozen in terror, and a single playing card—the ace of spades—was tucked into his jacket pocket. No wallet, no phone, no identification. Just the card.

“Second one this month,” muttered Sergeant Rhys Llewellyn, crouching beside her. His voice was gruff, weathered by years on the force. “Same MO. Clean cut, no struggle, and that bloody card.”

Eira nodded, her mind racing. The first victim, a barmaid from the Landore Social Club, had been found two weeks ago in a derelict factory off Neath Road. Same wound, same card. The press was already sniffing around, whispering about a serial killer. The South Wales Police were under pressure, and Eira, newly promoted to DI, felt the weight of it all.

“Get forensics down here,” she ordered. “And check CCTV from the nearby pubs. Someone must’ve seen him.”

Landore wasn’t big, but it was tight-knit. People here didn’t talk to coppers easily. Eira, born and raised in nearby Plasmarl, knew the unspoken rules. Trust was earned, not given. She scanned the scene again, her eyes catching a glint in the dirt—a cheap silver ring, engraved with a Celtic knot. It wasn’t on the victim’s hand. She bagged it, her gut telling her it wasn’t random.

Back at the station, Eira pored over the case files. The barmaid, Sian Davies, had been 29, single, no enemies. This new victim was identified by fingerprints as Gareth Hughes, a local mechanic with a rap sheet for petty theft. No obvious connection between them, except the ace of spades. Eira’s research on the card turned up nothing concrete—just vague references to death and bad luck in old folklore. She didn’t believe in omens, but the precision of the kills unnerved her. This wasn’t rage or impulse. This was calculated.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Rhys: CCTV from the Copperworks shows a figure in a hooded coat, 2 a.m. No face, but they moved fast. Checking pubs now. Eira’s jaw tightened. Whoever this was, they knew Landore’s backstreets, its blind spots. A local, maybe.

She drove to the Landore Social Club, a squat brick building where the air smelled of stale beer and regret. The barman, Dai, was polishing glasses when she walked in. “Heard about Gareth,” he said, not looking up. “Rough way to go.”

“Know him well?” Eira asked, leaning on the counter.

“Well enough. He fixed my van once. Kept to himself, mostly. Hung out with some dodgy types, though.”

“Dodgy how?”

Dai shrugged. “Blokes from the old estate. Always whispering in corners. Thought they were planning a job, maybe.”

Eira pressed him for names, but Dai clammed up. She left with a list of regulars to chase down and a growing sense that Landore was hiding something darker than she’d expected.

That night, Eira walked the streets near the Copperworks, retracing the killer’s likely path. The fog was thicker now, the streetlights barely cutting through. She passed the old railway bridge, its iron rusted and graffiti-tagged. A shadow moved in her peripheral vision. She froze, hand on her radio, but the alley was empty. Just nerves, she told herself. Still, the ring in her pocket felt heavier.

The breakthrough came the next morning. Forensics matched DNA on the ring to a known lowlife, Tommy Rees, a small-time dealer with a history of violence. Eira and Rhys tracked him to a rundown flat off Cwm Level Road. Tommy was twitchy, his eyes darting as Eira questioned him.

“Never seen that ring before,” he spat, but his hands shook. “I wasn’t near the Copperworks.”

“You were seen, Tommy,” Eira lied, watching his reaction. “Hooded coat, 2 a.m. Sound familiar?”

Tommy’s face paled. “I didn’t kill nobody! Yeah, I was there, but I was just… meeting someone.”

“Who?” Eira pressed.

He clammed up, but a search of his flat turned up a bloodied knife wrapped in cloth. The blade matched the wounds on both victims. Tommy was cuffed, but Eira wasn’t convinced. He was sloppy, panicked—nothing like the precision of the kills.

At the station, Tommy broke after hours of interrogation. “It wasn’t me,” he sobbed. “I found the knife near the river, thought I could sell it. I swear, I saw someone else that night—a woman, tall, dark hair. She was watching me.”

Eira’s blood ran cold. A woman didn’t fit the profile, but Landore was full of surprises. She cross-checked Tommy’s story with CCTV. Sure enough, a grainy frame showed a tall figure, possibly female, lingering near the Copperworks. No face, just a shadow.

The case took a darker turn when a third body was found—a bookie named Alun Price, throat slashed, ace of spades in his pocket. This time, a witness, an old man walking his dog, reported seeing a woman in a dark coat near the scene. Eira’s mind raced. Was Tommy covering for someone? Or was he just a pawn?

She dug into the victims’ lives. Sian, Gareth, and Alun had all frequented the same underground poker game in Landore, run by a shadowy figure known only as “The Dealer.” Whispers on the street pointed to a woman who’d lost everything at those tables—money, family, sanity. Her name was Carys Bowen, a former nurse who’d vanished after a public breakdown.

Eira tracked Carys to a derelict house near the old steelworks. The place was a shrine to vengeance—photos of the victims pinned to the walls, each with an ace of spades stapled over their faces. Carys was there, knife in hand, eyes wild but calculating.

“You don’t understand,” Carys hissed as Eira drew her baton. “They took everything. The game was rigged. They laughed while I lost my life.”

Eira’s heart pounded, but her voice was steady. “Put the knife down, Carys. It’s over.”

Carys lunged, but Eira was faster, pinning her to the floor. As Rhys cuffed her, Eira noticed a tattoo on Carys’s wrist—a Celtic knot, identical to the ring. The pieces clicked: Carys had left it at the first scene, a taunt, a signature.

In custody, Carys confessed. The poker game had been a front for a loan-sharking ring. When she couldn’t pay, they’d humiliated her, driven her to the edge. The ace of spades was her revenge, a symbol of the death she brought to those who’d wronged her.

As Eira left the station, the fog over Landore was lifting, but the weight of the case lingered. She’d caught the killer, but the scars of the town—its secrets, its betrayals—wouldn’t fade so easily. Landore kept its ghosts close, and Eira knew she’d face them again.