The flower-woman ushered Rose through the group who parted for her, their grim faces barely registering in the dusk. There were a few she recognised from the town and even a couple she could put names to. Being two months into her post with the local constabulary, she felt she really ought to know all of them, but Rose was damned if she could tell one face from another in this light.

‘What took you so long, Officer?’ growled a voice obscured beneath the hood of a raincoat. The garment would have swamped a basketball player, let alone the dumpy character wearing it. She ignored the insinuation and allowed herself to be led to where the wire fence cut across them and a yellow sign warning of the dangerous sheer drop swung precariously in the wind.

Near the edge, a cracked wooden sign bearing the name of the cliff jutted out of the ground at an angle: DEVIL’S POINT.

‘Who found her?’ asked Rose to the flower-woman.

‘Vern was leading his history group up here.’

‘What was a history group doing up here at this time of night?’

‘Well, it’s more of a ghost walk, if you ask me. The cliff is supposed to be haunted by the ghost of a Celtic sailor who—’

Rose raised her hand irritably and the woman had the good sense not to continue. Rose lowered the wire and stepped over it; it was astonishing how brittle the safety perimeter was.

She stopped and stared ahead. Behind her, the dying sun was plunging into the horizon, its final burst of energy igniting the foot of the night sky with a deep crimson gloss. Rose swallowed hard. Standing on the edge of the cliff, her hair caught in the breeze, was a young girl of no more than ten. She faced outwards towards the sea, her hands outstretched, looking for all the world as if she might suddenly sprout wings and dive into the grey abyss.

She looked back, as if the flower-woman might be able to offer some explanation. She was met with an array of blank faces.

‘Hello?’ Rose called gently, careful not to startle her.

At first, the girl did nothing but, when Rose called again, she turned her head and Rose caught a glimpse of a pale, tear-stained face.

‘Sweetheart, I’m a police officer. You’re standing very close to the edge. Can you step back towards me?’

The girl didn’t move. Rose edged forward. The girl was perilously close to the brink – a strong, unexpected gust might be enough to send her over.

‘You’re safe, honey. You just need to turn around, slowly and carefully.’

The wind whipped around her face as Rose lowered herself to the girl’s level. She was seven or eight metres from Rose but, given the proximity of the danger facing her, she might as well have been a thousand miles away. Her heart racing, Rose extended her hand.