Carrying the little belongings that I'd brought with me, I went into the Inn. A crescent-shaped bar stood along the far wall. The Inn wasn't very busy, and those that huddled around the small fire and the tables fell into a hushed silence and looked at me. As I crossed the floor to the bar, I could feel their eyes staring at me. It was so quiet that I could hear the wood snapping and crackling as it burnt in the fireplace. I looked across at it and noticed that someone had engraved a five-pointed star into the plaster above the fireplace. Then in the far corner, I noticed a figure. He sat alone at a table which was lit with a candle and he warmed a glass of whiskey in his hand. The male had a hood pulled so low over his head that it concealed his face. Although I couldn't see his eyes, I knew he was watching me.

Trying not to make eye contact with those gathered in the Inn, I reached the bar. I had never felt so uncomfortable in my life, and I wondered why Sergeant Phillips had decided to rent me a room in such a godforsaken place. When I thought I couldn't bear it any longer and was just about to pick up my case and run from the place, an elderly-looking woman appeared from a small office behind the bar. White lengths of wispy hair protruded from her head, and her face was haggard and lined with deep, ragged wrinkles. She looked like a corpse that had been warmed-up.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice sounding weak and broken.

"I have a room booked..." I started.

"Name?" the old woman asked, thumbing through a dusty-looking ledger behind the bar.

"Hudson," I said. "Kiera Hudson."

The woman sniffed, and taking a key from a series of hooks on the wall behind her, she placed it on the bar and said, "Room number two."

Taking the key, I said "Thank -"

"Top of the stairs and turn right," the old woman cut over me. "Breakfast is between six and seven, and dinner between eight and ten."

Looking at my wristwatch, I could see it had just gone ten. "I don't suppose there's any chance of something to eat?" I asked her.

"Dinner is between eight and ten," she repeated without looking up at me.

"I know, but it's only just a couple of minutes past, so I was wondering -" I began.

"Between eight and ten," the old woman said again, but this time she looked up at me. Her eyes were milky-coloured and clouded with cataracts.

Shrugging my shoulders, as if I didn't really care, I picked up my case and as I did, I noticed something rather odd. All the way along the old oak beams that supported the bar, someone had tied reams of garlic bulbs. There were hundreds - no thousands of them. And as I looked up, I could see they hung from the ceiling, at the back of the Inn door and walls.

"What's with the garlic?" I said, turning towards the old woman, but she had disappeared back into her tiny office. Turning my back on all those watchful eyes, I made my way up the stairs to my room. Holding onto my case, I fumbled with the key as I slipped it into the lock. Hearing it click, I pushed the door open and shut it behind me. The room was in darkness, so I ran my fingers blindly along the wall in search of the light switch. Finding it, I flipped it on, and the room lit up with a dim bulb that hung from the centre of the ceiling. I looked around my new home and understood why none of the other recruits had stayed a full year in this place.

There was a narrow-looking bed wedged in the far corner, an old fashioned looking wardrobe, and a desk with a lamp. The carpet looked threadbare, and the walls were a dingy grey colour. There was a small bathroom, which had a toilet and bath. I didn't know how much headquarters were paying the old woman downstairs, but whatever it was, they were being ripped off.

Placing my case onto the bed, I went to the bathroom and ran myself a bath. While it was running, I unpacked my stuff and hung it in the wardrobe. When I was all fixed up, I got undressed and climbed into the hot water. Closing my eyes, I lent my head back against the rim of the bath. I thought about everything that had happened since arriving at The Ragged Cove and my mind soon wandered to Luke Bishop. Out of everyone that I had met so far, he seemed the nicest. He had a kind and honest way about him, and I was grateful that he took my side over that of Potter, who seemed like a real prick. Loved himself, too, by the way he was acting all cocky. Sergeant Murphy, I was still to make up my mind about. He seemed set in his ways and I guessed he didn't want some young cop coming in and telling him how to run things. But I wasn't trying to do that. I didn't care that he wanted to lounge around the police station all night in his slippers, smoking a pipe. But what did trouble me was his apparent disregard for properly investigating a crime scene. And not any old crime scene. That was the murder of an eight-year-old child and he was letting that idiot Potter smoke and trample all over it.

If only they'd taken the time to study it then they would have seen the things that I had. It wasn't magic - the clues were there if you looked for them. I'd always been like that. My father had called it my 'gift' - but it wasn't really - I just had a knack of noticing things that others seemed unable to see. I saw stuff that other people missed. But it wasn't magic and it wasn't a 'gift', I called it 'seeing'.

But what about Luke? What could I see about him? Nothing. He was like a blank sheet of paper. Apart from his obvious good looks and incredible smile, it was the fact that he was a mystery that I found so attractive.

Sinking beneath the hot water, images of the Blake boy lying dead with his throat ripped out rippled across the front of my mind. There were two things that troubled me. My father had often told me that you could tell a lot from a crime scene by the pattern of blood left behind. But that was the problem - there was very little blood for such a gaping wound. The brachiocephalic artery had been ripped apart and I remembered my father telling me once how he had worked on a murder where the victim had had their throat cut. Their life blood had pumped away through the wound in that particular artery.

How then had there been so little blood at the murder scene of the Blake boy? Where had all the blood gone? It was almost as if it had been siphoned off. And what about the lack of footprints leading to and from the scene? I didn't buy Murphy's theory about the ground being too dry for any prints to be left. If prints could be lifted from carpets and lino floors, they could be seen in earth - however dry. But how had the killers got to the scene? The only clue was the hole made in the trees above, where the branches had been broken and smashed. It was almost as if someone or something had entered the crime scene from above. But that would be impossible, right?

As I tried to examine these theories inside my head, I was startled by the sound of someone outside my bedroom door. Leaping from the bath, I wrapped a towel around me and went into the bedroom. Tiptoeing to the door, I listened to the rustling sound. Screwing up my eyes, I could see a shadow fleeting back and forth in the gap beneath my door.

Reaching out for the key that I'd left in the lock, I called out, "Who's there?"

There was silence.

"What do you want?"

Then I heard the sound of footsteps rushing away. Holding the towel tight about me, I yanked open the door and peered along the landing. And as I did, I caught the last fleeting glimpse of a shadow disappearing down the stairs. My instincts told me to run after them, to find out who it had been. But with nothing on except the bath towel, I reluctantly stepped back into my room, and as I did, I noticed a small white envelope tacked to the door.

Removing it, I went back inside. Across the front of the envelope someone had scribbled 'Kiera'. Sitting on my bed, I opened it and a small silver crucifix fell out into my hand. Placing it on the desk beside my bed, I went back to the envelope. Studying it, my heart skipped a beat, as I could see from looking at it, that the person I'd seen sitting in the bar with their face hidden behind the hood, was the person responsible for leaving me the crucifix.