As they left the forest behind them, Harri looked to her right where the mountains of Snowdonia rose grey and purple beneath the blue sky. Across an estuary that separated the mountains from the spit of land on which they stood, nestled in the embrace of the foothills, was a small beachfront town.

‘Barmouth,’ Lake remarked. ‘And Elsewhere.’

‘Excuse me?’ Harri said, surprised at the name.

Lake was a couple of paces ahead of her, so she skipped to catch up.

‘Elsewhere,’ Lake repeated, gesturing to their north. ‘Its proper name is the Elsewhere House, but locals just call it Elsewhere.’

As she drew level with him she saw beyond a curve in the treeline. Standing in a semi-circular clearing was a grey stone house with a jet-black slate roof. The tiles were held in place by metal clips that shone like silver knuckle bones. The house itself was a large square box with two small windows on the ground floor, either side of the front door, and two much larger double bay windows on the first floor. Harri understood the building’s name. A structure so grand in such a striking location almost didn’t seem of this world.

What she didn’t understand was whether the reference in Ben Elmys’s poem, about ‘our forever elsewhere house’, was connected to this place. Or was it coincidence? But there were too many coincidences. What were the chances of her finding a cry for help written by a woman who knew a man she’d once dated? That he’d happen to mention an elsewhere house? Coincidence was the enemy of every good detective, and Harri was irritated by the thought she was missing a huge piece of this puzzle.

‘Beautiful spot, eh?’ Lake remarked.

Harri nodded absently. It was truly stunning, but her mind wasn’t on the aesthetic qualities of the place. She was trying to recall the rest of Ben’s poem, and puzzled over its significance.

‘It’s vacant,’ Lake went on as they continued towards the cliff edge. ‘Used to belong to an old couple who were as lovely as anyone you could hope to meet and totally devoted to each other, but, well, she died and he moved away and it was sold as a holiday home. Now spends most of its time empty. Seems a shame.’

The house had no garden or fence. It was as though it had grown from the clifftop, like an appendage that was as much a part of the landscape as the rocks and trees, which only added to its magical quality. Her instinct felt right; this must be the place Ben had mentioned in his poem.

‘This is where it happened,’ Lake said, and Harri’s stomach curled like week-old ham when she realized how close they were to the edge of the cliff. ‘It’s OK,’ he assured her. ‘There’s an outcrop below us. You really have to want to fall.’

Harri smiled uncertainly and took tiny steps forward. The wind whipped, making her feel even more exposed. As she inched towards the precipice, she saw more of the water below. The waves turned choppy and swirled around rocks at the foot of the high cliff. Her knees went weak and her toes bunched like fists, as though some ancient part of her was trying to find purchase. She craned over and saw the small outcrop Lake mentioned. It was home to a nesting seagull, and about a hundred feet beneath it, the roiling sea crashed angrily.