The runway was clear with only their driver waiting for them, and they filed into the blacked-out BMW X7 with relief. Johnny sat beside the driver in the front, Kit and Ari in the middle and Clover and Matty at the back. They swept along the floor of the Engadin valley in silence, the mountains soaring above them like gothic cathedrals. The light was pink-tinted under a crystalline clear sky and the mountains here again seemed more jagged and saw-toothed than in Austria, the snow iced and peaked like a wedding cake.

In under ten minutes they were in town, passing the famous frozen lake and horse-drawn sleighs. Clover wasn’t sure she’d ever seen more furs outside of the zoo. Posters were up all around town, advertising the FIS competition with headshots of the biggest names: Scotty James. Mark McMorris. Everyone looked so healthy – tans, white teeth, bright smiles . . .

Clover felt a wave of relief that Kit’s photo wouldn’t have been included – he wasn’t yet a big name in this sport and now he was a big name for all the wrong reasons. The lower his profile could be here, frankly, the better.

Kit frowned as the driver slowed and indicated to turn into the drop-off area outside Badrutt’s Palace, in the very heart of the town. It was a vast, old-school European hotel, with arches, stone walls and turrets, a Swiss flag flying in the breeze and quite the most enormous Christmas tree Clover had ever seen.

‘Are there squirrels living in that thing?’ Matty whispered.

‘What are we doing here? I thought we had an apartment,’ Kit said in a low voice to Ari.

Ari nodded. ‘We did. But the landlord bailed when . . .’ He shrugged diplomatically.

‘When he heard I was the client.’ Kit looked out of the window, his jaw balling. ‘. . . Well, did it have to be here? This place is too . . . showy. I’m a snowboarder, not a banker.’

‘It was all Julian could get at short notice. Everything’s pretty much booked out for the comp. His family know the Badrutts. They’re doing him a favour.’

‘. . . Fuck’s sake,’ he muttered, looking back at Ari again. ‘There’s press outside as well. How could they know I was coming here when even I didn’t?’

Ari shook his head, looking surprised. ‘I have no idea. You’re booked in under a pseudonym . . . Don’t worry, mate. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re looking for you. This place gets all the big names. There must be someone else of interest in town.’

‘Hmm.’ Kit reached into his coat pocket for his shades anyway. He was in jeans, trainers and his minimal JOR gunmetal grey snowboard jacket. He pulled on a beanie too. Everything was low-key; nothing about him stood out – apart from those cheekbones.