As Gavin led us closer, I thought I heard, from deep inside, the blaring klaxon of an air-raid siren or a fire alarm, as well as a series of distant thuds, loud enough to make the ground vibrate underfoot. Unease festered in my stomach. I started to dissect things. Gavin had certainly seemed more concerned with getting us, or at least Juliette, up here than finding Lucy. And, while Lucy was missing and we were worried, she wasn’t dead. In books like this, you should never believe someone is dead until you’ve actually seen a body. They tend to show up. We’ve all read And Then There Were None.

On the other hand, suspicious as I was of Gavin, it’s simply unfair to introduce the killer this far past the mid-point. Knox would have me drawn and quartered – that’s his first rule. And, reader, your ‘percentage read’ should tell you there is just too much to go.

Regardless, there should have been hundreds of people around: it was peak season and this was a resort for hardcore thrill-seekers, unlikely to be scared off by some wind and ice. Where were they?

My question was answered when Gavin opened the door.

The roar of the storm was nothing compared to the roar that greeted us as we stepped over the threshold. Electronic music was blaring, flashing colours assaulted my eyes, and the bass rumbled the walls in deep, repetitive thuds. Rotating spotlights illuminated writhing bodies, glowsticks hanging off their necks and wrists. A man on a platform surrounded by green lasers bounced one arm in the air. Chairs and tables were pushed alongside the walls, cleared from the dining hall to make way for the dance floor. We’d walked straight into the middle of a rave.

Gavin plucked his way through the crowd and we tried to stay as close as we could. It was hot, hotter than I’d felt in days, the air laden with sweat. People feasted on each other’s faces. Andy was in awe, transfixed by flesh and fantasy. People wore ski-goggles with underwear, boardshorts with snow jackets, towels as capes, helmets, gloves and t-shirts tied around heads. One woman wore a Hawaiian lei, a balaclava, a bikini and a huge multicoloured sombrero. My oven mitt fit right in.

I was nearly decapitated by a line of shirtless men drinking from a horizontal ski, six shot glasses screwed into the wood. The crowd was thickest by the bar, where the menu had prices hastily crossed out and rewritten, enormously inflated, in thick black texta alongside a large CASH ONLY sign. Gavin reached another door and held it open for us. We filtered into the corridor. I had to yank Andy the last few steps.

‘Jesus Christ, Gav,’ Juliette gasped, leaning with relief against the wall. The floor still shook with the bass, but at least the air was breathable. ‘That’s out of control.’