‘Just say the words. Just say it. Tell him.’ She started thumping his chest with her spare, balled fist. As if she could force the confession out of him. Then, I think because of a combination of the cold and the exertion, her knees drooped and she gently sagged into the snow. Michael tried to catch her but was too slow to do much except guide her down, where she sat in the snow. Crawford, Sofia and I all hurried to help her up, but she swatted us away. Katherine and Lucy both started shouting at Officer Crawford for keeping an old lady in the cold.

‘Mrs Cunningham,’ Crawford said, loud enough to quiet the rabble, ‘Michael was released yesterday afternoon.’

Yesterday? I remember the slow dawn of realisation. But that meant—

Michael’s eyes darted to Erin. I think I saw Lucy’s face collapse inwards. The first snowflake landed on my eyelash.

‘That’s not bulletproof. Okay. Okay, so he wasn’t in prison. Sure.’ Marcelo was reeling off his thought process, trying to find the best option, while hauling Audrey up. ‘But that doesn’t mean he was here. You can’t stay there, love, you’ll get wet. So, just tell us where you were last night, Michael, and that’ll be the end of it.’

‘I’d rather go with you, Officer.’

Crawford clicked the handcuffs on and gave Michael a reassuring look. Even without knowing the full subtext of Michael’s concealment, Officer Last Resort could see that this was the less harmful option. I noticed he put the handcuffs on very loosely. Maybe not loose enough to slip through, but loose enough to not be threatening. He turned to the owner – look, chronologically I know the owner hasn’t told me her name yet, but it’s bugging me, so I’m going to start calling her Juliette, because she tells me soon – and said, ‘I need to keep him on his own, for the safety of the guests.’

‘He’d get out from wherever you put him. No rooms or chalets lock from the outside only – it’s a fire hazard,’ Juliette replied. (See, I told you it’d be easier.) ‘We’re a hotel, not a prison.’

‘What about the Drying Room?’ Lucy said. Her face was darker than the sky, her voice throaty, tongue thick with anger. I would find out later, but she must have already known the Drying Room was nothing more than a heated closet-sized space filled with wooden benches for boots and clothes racks for coats, which smelled like damp mould and the type of sweat you only get when you’re wearing something so waterproof it traps everything inside as well as keeping it out. It was a petty revenge, but it was the best she could do on short notice. Her tone was smug as she added, ‘I saw it has a slide bolt on the outside.’