The house stands over the valley but looks away from it. The Inspector steps down on to the pavement and watches the tram disappear. Wayward instinct prompts her for a moment to run after it, to get back on board and take the journey to the end. A moving tram is a bubble in space, profoundly separated from everything else. Time passes inside at a fractionally different rate, and no physical interaction is possible between passengers and people on the outside. A line of tram tracks is the intrusion into everyday space of another physical realm—albeit one so comfortably mundane that few people realise what they are seeing. Terminus stations, like airports, are the junction, the place where a temporary reality fades into the continuing consensus one—as well as being where the rails run out—so they are transitional to the power of two: liminally liminal. In such an enfolded location, surely, there must be clues to almost any mystery, spat out on to the littoral plain of human passage.