‘Andy!’ I called from the doorway, hopping into my left boot. He stopped and turned, waved, and then waited. I hurried in a snow-handicapped wobble over to him. We were in thin enough air that I was out of breath and puffing when I reached him. My breath misted between us, fogging up his glasses. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Some poor bastard.’ He pointed up the hill and started walking. His look of curiosity instead of fear answered my question before I asked it: one of us? I fell into step beside him, thankful that I’d inadvertently dialled Sofia last night and knew she’d made it back to her cabin. Being caught outside overnight would certainly be lethal, even on a calm night like last night. I shivered. It would be an awful way to go.

There was a dead man with frostbite-blackened cheeks lying on his back in the snow. He was all covered – black ski jacket, black gloves, boots – except for his face and for a second my brain flashed to another dark lump in the middle of a white clearing. I shook off the thought, peered over the shoulder of the guy in front of me. There were a couple of dozen gawkers, the promise of drama smoking people out of their hotel rooms like wasps.

In front of us was one male cop, about my age, maybe younger, wearing a beanie with ear flaps and a jacket with a wool collar, trying to keep people away. If I’m honest, he looked flustered, like he had no idea what he was doing. Andy had ambled off to join Katherine, who’d beaten us there, despite this not being on her schedule. Everyone seemed to be in silent agreement that about ten metres was enough distance to preserve the crime scene, and a semicircle had naturally formed. It hadn’t snowed heavily overnight, so the corpse and the three prominent sets of footprints leading up the hill towards it were clearly preserved.

Of the footprints, three sets headed up the hill but only one returned. The returning trail became choppy, with occasional smaller holes next to the shoeprints: I assumed it was the person who found the body running back to report it, panicked, lurching down the hill, putting a hand down here and there. The second set of footprints were clear, linear prints. I assumed they belonged to the cop, currently with the body.

The third set of footprints headed up the slope like the others. But then they broke form: moving backwards and forwards, up and down, all inside a few square metres. It was as if someone was trapped inside an invisible box, ricocheting off the walls. That set of footprints ended at the body. There was no return journey.