‘Neither of us believe that Michael is responsible for . . .’ I gestured to the body. It seemed odd to be having such a casual conversation around it. ‘And I’m guessing if you’re willing to break in and poke around, you don’t buy the natural causes explanation either. You think someone’s after Michael, after what you both dug up, and I’m just trying to get Michael off the hook and fix something for once in my life. That’s our common ground. We’re both trying to solve a murder.’ Once again I am reminded that I am not the main character simply by virtue of being the one who writes this all down. In fact, I remember thinking to myself at the time that more people seemed to have motives to solve this damn murder than to actually commit it. ‘So let’s start there. If we can find who did this, we’ll also find out if Michael’s telling the truth.’

‘One proves the other,’ she agreed, then she touched her pointer fingers together, placed them under her chin and furrowed her brow. ‘I’m feeling there’s been some progress in the room today. Wouldn’t you say?’

Against my instincts, I laughed. There was a reason we fell in love, no matter what had happened since; it was hard to forget all of that.

‘You got a bit of a look before I arrived,’ I said. ‘Did you find anything?’

‘I mean, I’m no expert, but none of this can be normal.’ She leaned back over the body, I edged closer.

I hadn’t had a good look at Green Boots yet, as I’d been too squeamish when carrying his foot and only glimpsed Crawford’s photo of his face. His eyes were closed. The shed was so cold his hair had ice crystals in it. His face was caked in black ash, which I’d first mistaken for frostbite, and around his mouth it had formed a glistening, congealed tar. His neck was ringed with an angry red wound. Sofia had told me about the cut; it had rubbed off on Crawford’s sleeves, but it was gorier up close. Whatever had been wrapped around the man had been so tight as to cut through the skin. The bloody laceration had also started to crystallise in the cold.

Erin interrupted my sleuthing. ‘Looks like someone strangled him. I don’t know what the black stuff is. Poison?’

‘Ash,’ I said, repeating what Sofia had told me. ‘Apparently.’

‘As in he was on fire? Out here?’

I nodded. ‘No melted snow though. And if he was, wouldn’t he have rolled around? Had burns? Sofia thinks it’s a serial killer. The media calls them the Black Tongue. But if you think Michael’s caught up in some gangland dealings, same as Dad, it might be some kind of enforcer?’