‘Maybe it’s to do with theatrics. Maybe a couple of spectacular murders is worth more than a string of mundane ones. Certainly for a newspaper, anyway.’ Before I could ask her if a man burning to death in an unmelted snow field counted as a spectacular murder or not, she went on. ‘Sofia’s off her rocker. I don’t believe a serial killer is hiding out at this retreat. I just wanted to know if you recognised the body, maybe from lunch yesterday, or when you were in the bar with Andy, or just around?’

It sounded like a hurried excuse to me. ‘Why do you want to know who he is?’

‘Because nobody seems to know and it’s giving me the creeps. And no one seems to be missing.’

‘I’m sure they have a guest book. Maybe he was staying by himself.’

‘Word is, everyone who should be here is accounted for.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I talk to people. The owner. You should try it sometime.’

‘I didn’t recognise him,’ I confessed. I know I’m the narrator, but it interested me that I wasn’t the only one scratching around the death. Crime novels always look at the motives of a list of suspects, but only from the perspective of the inspired inquirer. Am I really the detective just because it’s my voice you have to listen to? I guess this whole story would be different if someone else wrote it. Maybe I’m only the Watson after all.

So what made Lucy especially curious, and up here with me grappling with an intermittent internet for clues? I caught the faintest glimmer of disappointment in the way she set her jaw, and figured something out. ‘You’re digging around because you want to get rid of Crawford,’ I said. ‘You know that the longer it takes to identify a John Doe, the more police they’ll send. And if Michael’s on edge, it will ruin your plan for the weekend.’

‘I can’t have any distractions,’ she whispered. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that, under that policy, her fluorescent lipstick would have to go. ‘Michael deserves his family back. This is my last chance to give it to him.’

I realised there was another reason for her to be on the roof. She was hunting that one bar of reception. Hoping a text would slip through.

‘Have you heard from him?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Her?’

Lucy laughed. ‘I think she might have deleted my number. I’m the ex. You?’

‘I wasn’t expecting to.’

‘I guess we are on the same side.’ She sighed.

‘Are you worried about seeing him?’