‘Heading out?’ It’s Rosamund, fluttering her gloved hand. She’s stomping towards her cottage in a sunshine-yellow anorak. Her grey fur hat elegantly perched on her head. Her baby bump is clearly visible through her coat, and another pang of envy shoots through me. She must have been to Ruth’s cottage, as she’s carrying a French stick and a carton of milk. The cottages all have small kitchens: microwaves, dishwashers, even washing machines, but Ruth sells filled rolls, bread and milk, and various other things, from midday until three o’clock daily. I realise I’m hungry – all that sledging – but it’s just gone three so I’ve missed my opportunity. ‘We’re about to have a bite to eat,’ Rosamund goes on, and I can’t make up my mind if it’s an invitation to join her and Elise, but it’s the last thing I want to do.

‘I thought I’d take a walk,’ I call, quickening my step, which isn’t easy in the deep snow, and I trip, almost falling over.

‘Good idea, I might do the same later if Elise fancies it. I think I’ll go stir-crazy stuck inside. You can only play so many board games, can’t you?’ She smiles, throws me another flutter of her fingers, and, passing the snowman that still stands proudly, goes into her cottage, calling her stepdaughter’s name.

The snow is soft and crunches like meringue each time I lower my boot, which amuses me far more than it should. There’s no strength to the sun, which peeks out from behind soft, smoky-grey clouds, and the wind, after settling down earlier, has got up again.

I make my way over to Vine Hill and stand at the top, scanning the area. The snowy view – which I didn’t fully appreciate before, far too busy debating whether to slide down or not – is beautiful. The Scottish Highlands are stunning at any time of year, but the unblemished snow stretching for miles over fields, hills and mountains, is breath-taking. My eyes sting from the cold as they travel across the splendour, landing on Michael Collis’s house. It’s large – too big for just him – but being a farmhouse it suits its surroundings. A lonely place to live, I imagine. But then if he travels abroad a lot, perhaps he’s glad of the tranquillity when he returns home. I wonder for a moment whether the disappearance of Jackson and Lark affected him at the time. Whether he was concerned when he returned from his travels to find two people had vanished while staying on the estate.

I set out towards the farmhouse. Trying to recall the route we’d travelled earlier, but in reverse, stepping gingerly, unsure where the path ends and the edge, which falls away to a sheer drop, begins. Eventually I reach the bottom.