Crawford shook his head. ‘I’m just trying to find out if you know who he is. I could get here the quickest from Jindy, but there’ll be proper detectives on their way who can do the list-of-suspects thing. But I figure I should find out if he was staying here or came over the ridge – maybe a night skier who got turned around.’

‘He’s not wearing skis,’ Sofia said. I realised she was very pale too, as white as the snow on the ground.

‘Yeah, I understand. Do me a favour though – take a closer look.’ He showed us a close-up photo on his phone of the dead man’s face. It was mostly blackened, including his lips. ‘Ring any bells?’

All three of us shook our heads. Not only did I not recognise him, but on closer inspection, I realised it didn’t resemble frostbite at all. Sofia suddenly held up a hand and ran out the door. We watched her go, confused, until the distinct sound of retching was carried over to us on the wind. Andy and I stood, trying to figure out whether it would be more helpful or embarrassing for us to go out with her, and both settled on inaction.

I’ll hold it here to mention that I know some authors are incapable of having a woman throw up without it being a clue to a pregnancy. These same authors seem to think nausea is the only indication of childbearing, not to mention their belief that vomit shoots out the woman’s mouth within hours of plot-convenient fertilisation. By some authors, I mean male ones. Far be it from me to tell you which clues to pay close attention to, but Sofia’s not pregnant, okay? She’s allowed to throw up of her own volition.

‘All right,’ Crawford said to Andy and me. He seemed happy with our response to the photos, his obligation to the investigation complete, and even a touch more comfortable around the body. ‘I guess that’s it for now.’ He walked over to the benches and fossicked around until he found an open brass padlock with a key hanging from it. We followed him out the front as he screeched the tin door closed and fiddled with the lock. ‘I’d say don’t go anywhere—’

‘—but you can’t.’ I finished it for him.

‘Ernest’s done this before,’ Sofia added, emerging from the side of the shed, wiping her mouth. ‘Dead bodies,’ she said sheepishly, by way of explanation. ‘It never gets any easier.’

Crawford let out a heavy breath. He seemed tired. I pegged him as a country cop who’d spent most of his career with his feet on the desk or giving tourists like Lucy speeding tickets. He seemed more annoyed to have been pulled from his comfortable day than interested in the corpse. ‘All right. I’ve called it in. I understand you’re waiting on another guest?’