‘Ugh,’ he groaned, kicking off the shearling throw. ‘Well, can we at least take the lift?’

‘You’re not five!’ she grinned. ‘And we can’t – it might ping.’

They crept like pantomime burglars, hunched and on tiptoe, up to the living room, and straight up from there to the mezzanine. The décor on the top floor became immediately softer and more sumptuous. Gone were the rough stone walls and antique flagged floors, deployed to withstand higher footfall; instead a thick cream carpet closed over their socked feet. A pale charcoal mural of a mountain scene was etched in pen and ink on the walls and offset by a pair of oxblood linen side chairs. There were only two doors on the whole floor, one on each side of the hall.

They opened the door on the left first, peering in tentatively. It was empty but they still held their breath as they stepped in.

‘Oh yes,’ Clover whispered, pleased by what she saw. The room was large – at least twice the size of her bedroom – with huge windows looking up the valley towards the mountains, the rising cables for the Schmittenhöhebahn ski lift visible; it felt even bigger on account of the vaulted ceiling and exposed timbers. The walls were linen-lined in dark moss, with a buttoned headboard as high as the bed was long.

But if the room’s concept and design were refined, the person inhabiting it was not. The bedsheets were a twisted tangle, a pillow on the floor, a laptop left charging in the middle of the mattress. The wardrobe doors were hanging open but it seemed to be superfluous, for there were clothes everywhere: jackets, jumpers and jeans piled high on chairs, bunched-up boxers and single socks on the floor, snow base layers inside out on the radiators. Vape cartridges and Rizla papers had been left on the desk, some magazines – car, surf, porn – slowly sliding off a chair.

‘Huh. So he’s forever fifteen, then,’ Johnny muttered. ‘This looks like he had a party in his parents’ room.’

‘He’s certainly a slob,’ she said slowly, following Johnny into the bathroom.

There were wet towels on the floor; a stale urine smell told them the loo hadn’t been flushed. More vapes. A shampoo bottle upside down in the shower.

‘Ah. This is Pluto’s room,’ Johnny murmured, reading the name on the label of a white pill bottle in the wall cabinet above the basin.

‘What?’ She walked over and stared at it. ‘Beau Foley.’ Dammit. ‘Alprazolam. What is that?’

He gave a disdainful snort. ‘It’s a street benzo . . . Benzodiazepine? . . . Treats anxiety.’

‘He’s got anxiety?’

‘Oh, I sincerely doubt it. Uses it as a downer, most likely.’ He reached in and pulled out some more bottles. ‘Yeah. Bringing him down from these.’

Clover looked at him blankly.

‘Our boy likes to party,’ he muttered, putting them back again. ‘Wingman and freeloader – playing to type so far.’