His thick German accent gave his question gravitas and Fran couldn’t help but feel chastised. What she had been attempting to do was dangerous.

‘I was …’ She sat up, wincing as her midriff sung with pain. Her T-shirt and cardigan had ridden up as the man had yanked her away from the cliff edge and the skin between her bra strap and waistband was red with scratch marks.

The man’s expression changed in an instant. ‘Mein Gott. Sorry, sorry, one moment.’ He shrugged his rucksack off his shoulders and rummaged around inside. He pulled out a compact green first aid bag, unzipped it and removed a handful of small white packets. He ripped the top off one, pulled out what Fran assumed was an antiseptic wipe and leant forward to wipe it over her stomach. She put out a hand to stop him but her objection dried up. Instead she sat quietly, not moving, as the man tenderly dabbed at her skin then applied plasters to the worst of the scratches.

‘It hurts?’ he asked, raising his eyes to hers.

She shook her head. ‘Not especially.’

‘But you’re crying.’

She coughed to try and clear her thickened throat but her voice, when she spoke, was quiet and small.

‘I came here looking for someone, but she’s not here.’

The German man shook his head. ‘Where is she?’

Fran looked out at the horizon where the inky black sea sliced across the white-blue sky. ‘She’s gone.’

Fran blinks several times as she steps out of the house, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Out here, miles away from the nearest town, the sky is a black canvas, dotted with stars. The trees are shadowy figures, the shrubs and bushes crouching animals. Only the first few metres of garden are visible, illuminated by the lights of the house. A noise makes her glance towards one of the windows. It’s thick with condensation but she can make out the shapes of three people, clambering into the hot tub. She moves away quickly, into the darkness at the side of the house and makes her way up the slope of the lawn. Her note sender didn’t specify where she should wait but she’s assuming they don’t want to be seen. Whatever it is they need to tell her about Jenna, there’s a reason they haven’t pulled her aside in front of the others. It’s a large garden and by the time Fran makes it to the boundary fence she’s breathing heavily and sweating beneath her wool coat. She rests a hand on the fence and stares out into the darkness, listening to the drone of traffic in the distance and the low hoot of an owl. Earlier there were sheep in the field that butts against the garden but they’ve gone now, stowed safely away in a barn no doubt.