He flipped his phone face down, not wanting the light to show, and signalled to Branson to do the same. Then he picked up his binoculars. He could just make out the silhouette of the driver, through the rain, but it was hard to see the face clearly. They were wearing a baseball or golfing cap pulled down low, and sunglasses, despite the darkness.

‘Ginevra Mary Stoneley? Unusual name, Ginevra. No, doesn’t mean anything.’ He also trained his binoculars on the Micra. They both watched through the rain that was coming down even harder now. The occupant of the car was just sitting. Biding her – or his – time – for what?

Meeting someone? Or just for the rain to stop and go for a walk? Or to jump?

Lowering the binoculars, Grace turned his phone over and glanced at the red dot of Niall Paternoster’s rental Fiesta. It was very definitely moving in this direction, the app estimating a time of less than ten minutes away.

Mark Taylor confirmed over the radio that a surveillance car had it in sight.

It was 11.42 p.m.

The shower was slowly dying down. Passing through.

‘Occupant’s getting out!’ Branson said.

Grace raised his binoculars again. The driver’s door of the Micra was ajar, the interior light on, but their view of the driver’s face was blocked by an umbrella. Then the figure alighted, the face still completely hidden from view by the umbrella. The door was pushed shut, then the indicators flashed – the car had been locked by remote.

‘Shit, who is it? Male or female?’ Grace whispered.

The person’s back was to them now, walking across the car park to the road. A calf-length dark raincoat with a hood raised over the cap and jeans tucked into walking boots.

‘Female, I reckon,’ Branson said. ‘From the way she’s walking.’

Grace nodded as the subject’s stride quickened across the car park towards the road. The figure, umbrella still raised, crossed over and walked a short distance up a grassy incline on the far side, towards the edge, before turning right and striding off into the night.

Both continued watching until the subject was out of sight, then they lowered their glasses and frowned at each other in the faint glow from their phones. ‘What’s going on there?’ Branson said. ‘A late constitutional along the top of the cliffs?’

Grace shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it definitely does not feel right.’ He turned his binoculars back on the Range Rover. The figure was still in the driving seat – Rebecca, he was sure, but he couldn’t see her face clearly.

‘A lovers’ rendezvous – perhaps just being ultra-cautious – the partner parked up somewhere, concealed? I mean, they’re hardly going to be able to do it in a Micra, are they? Not unless they’re extremely small.’

‘Yep, good luck with that one,’ Grace murmured.

The rain suddenly became heavier again, worsening into a torrent. Grace looked at his phone. At the red dot. Six minutes away now.