Redfyre’s finger traced the intact features on the close-up. “Who was he, this alleged faller-from-a-height?”

“An enthusiastic photographer. Local man. Registered member of the biggest club. The ‘Fiat Lux’, if you can believe it! Not much mourned, I think. He’d won the yearly prize the last three times, and people were getting a bit fed up with him. Rising politician. Tory. Hoping to stand for Cambridgeshire next time round. Independent means. Father was of the landed gentry and Royston Chilvers was his eldest son.”

The calculatedly level tone of the superintendent’s victim profile betrayed his dislike and prejudice, Redfyre thought. He replied with an attempt at humour: “That’s at least five good reasons for bumping him off!”

“You’re not kidding! I counted eight! By the time I’d investigated young Royston, I’d have given him a quick shove from a height myself!”

Redfyre tapped the photograph. “But he didn’t fall, did he?” he suggested.

“No. Course not. That’s no jumper. Not the bone damage you’d expect, not much bruising. He’d been placed. The forensic lads proved it by the depth and condition of the snow under and around the body. Pressure, displacement, ambient temperature, temperature of the overlying body, precipitation . . . those boys had a field day! The upshot was—you’ve likely guessed it!—he’d been bashed on the head at ground level, and his limbs arranged like a kid doing that arm-spreading malarkey. Trouble was, the press and the public took one look at the dramatic photos and decided he must have been pushed from the tower. Well, I mean! Bloke who should have been jousting in the mêlée at the top is found lying dead at the base? Join up the dots! What are towers for! That’s what the human mind does. It looks for the obvious, the link between point A and point B. It’s what’s kept us surviving as a species for so long.”

“It’s only contrarians like us who pick at the scabs and say: ‘Ah yes, but what if . . . ?’” Redfyre murmured.

“Exactly. And by the time we find out what if, it’s too late. People have moved on to the next excitement. A correct version was put out in the press, but no one was listening! He’d gone down in local history as the Winter Icarus.”

“Memorable!” Redfyre commented. “Do I detect the inventive powers of our local newshound?”

“You bet! And the notion of a fall was made indelible. The coroner hummed and hawed, and in deference to the lad’s grieving family, put it down as another ‘tripped and fell, banging his head,’ sustained in the pursuit of an interesting photographic angle. You’ll observe—because I’m sure we were meant to—that his camera has been carefully positioned on his chest with the safety strap still around his neck. And the lens was intact.”