The wail of sirens shattered the misty morning silence.
The scene: in front of the main gate of a grand mansion. Three cars from the Central Police Investigation Unit suddenly sped up, cutting across the road, and immediately blocked the tall iron gate of Beatrice's luxurious home.
Their tires screeched loudly on the wet asphalt. The car doors opened simultaneously, spilling out a dozen officers in tactical uniforms with faces hardened by an uncompromising resolve.
A thin security guard trembled behind his post. He stepped out with faltering steps, his face instantly turning deathly pale at the sight of the row of long barrels and the sharp stares of the investigators.
A police officer leading the group stepped forward, his gaze icy.
He held up a white sheet of paper bearing an official seal that stood in stark contrast against the overcast sky.
"We have a search warrant," said the officer, his voice deep and booming.
