It was a seven-minute drive to the detachment from Sam Hunt’s house. They did it in silence. Hawk pulled up to the door and waited for his staff sergeant to get out.

Craig stayed put. ‘You think he’s guilty.’

Hawk shifted forward, resting his chin on his arms as he leaned on the wheel. ‘Nah. I think it was the butler.’

‘Karen thingummybob relieved him at one-thirty. Right?

‘Yeah.’

‘The boy died around twelve-thirty to twelve forty-five.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You saw how that kid died, Hawk.’

Hawk wasn’t as far behind as Craig thought.

‘He could have been wearing some kind of protective clothing. Hidden the weapon and the blood-soaked garment somewhere before coming back down to the station.’

‘Having swung through the trees?’

A quizzical look from Daniel. Craig opened the door to get out. ‘No footprints, Hawk. One set belonging to the patroller, some deer tracks and the signs of the skis entering the woods and crashing. That’s it. Nothing else. Not one damned bootprint for hundreds of yards.’

Daniel looked ahead. ‘He’s involved.’

‘Maybe. Tell me how or why and win the candy.’

Craig slammed the door shut and went inside. Daniel sat for a second, then drove the car round the back of the building to park.

The woman reporter was by the trash cans. She approached the car as he stopped, and opened the door.

‘Not now, lady.’

She got in and Daniel sighed. Her action let a gust of cold air in with her that nearly took his face off.

‘You’re wasting your time. You’ll get a story when the staff sergeant makes a statement.’

The woman looked at him through pale eyes and smiled. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. I know your name, Constable Hawk. Constable Daniel Hawk.’

‘Neat detective work. Considered a career in the Mounties?’

The woman’s demeanour shifted into an unfamiliar gear.

‘Do you know my name?’

‘I don’t give a fuck. Get out of the car.’

Her voice dropped an octave and hummed with a menace alien to the strong but pretty face that mouthed the question.

‘Do you know my name?’

Daniel was perplexed. If the woman wanted a story, acting like a nut wasn’t the best way to extract it. He stared her out in the freezing car with little success, then jumped when Craig opened the car door.

‘Left my folder, constable.’

Craig smiled over at Daniel without looking at his new passenger.

‘How about getting lost, missy.’

‘She was just leaving.’

The woman extended a pale hand to Craig. He ignored it.

‘Marlene Sitconski. News International.’

‘Craig McGee. Pissed cop about to throw book at reporter.’