Ronelle is strapped on the trolley, white as a marble statue, frosted like a birthday cake, parked carelessly in a forest of frozen carcasses.

So she’s a marble statue birthday cake . . . in a forest.

Not now, Zeb. Really.

The buckles holding her down are cold and unnecessary. The detective is alive, but weak as a newborn and vibrating gently with the thrumm of deep cold. I throw off her straps and cover as much of her torso as I can with my jacket. Any bits sticking out, I rub briskly with my hands.

‘Don’t get any ideas, Ronnie,’ I tell her. ‘Just warming you up. No funny stuff.’

I move around the trolley and bump it over to the door with my hip so I can peek through the window. There is an emergency intercom set into the wall, and I lean over to press the switch with my forehead. Noise floods the freezer like a wave.

The porthole is frosted with crystals and streaked with grease, and it feels like I’m watching the outside world on an old gas-tube TV.

Four men have crashed into the kitchen beyond, securing the room for the arrival of the fifth. These men look good, but not great. Not ex-military, that’s for sure. There are holes in their positions that a five-year-old basketball player could dribble through.

Still. In their favour, they have a pretty fair selection of guns between them. Mostly automatics, but I spot a couple of old-fashioned revolvers too.

‘We’re better off in here,’ I whisper to Deacon, who has one eye open and is glaring at me like I’m an alien.

‘McEvoy,’ she chatters, much to my relief. ‘I was wrong. We gotta call it in now.’

Now we gotta call it in?

‘No need for that. The cops are coming soon, one way or another.’

Outside, a man trots into the room like he’s coming on stage in Vegas. A big guy, face a road map of burst corpuscles, soft cap pulled down over one eye. I know who this is. We’ve had text.

‘Irish Mike Madden,’ I whisper to Deacon, who has managed to crank the other eye open.

‘Where’s my gun?’ is her response to this news. Reasonable in the circumstances.

‘Not here. Be quiet.’

Deacon wants to object, but she’s out of energy for the moment and it is all she can do to scowl at me.

Mike Madden does a little shuffle along the carpet, all the time smiling, and comes to a stop with an arm-waving flourish.

‘Counsellor,’ he says to Faber, who is doing his damnedest not to fall down.

‘M . . . Mike,’ he stammers. ‘Mister Madden. What are you . . . What brings you here?’

I love these guys. Still holding on to the civil façade when there’s men dying or dead in the corridor.

Mike taps his chin, like he has to think about Faber’s question.