‘We come every year. No killer’s going to stop that.’

Del allowed himself the luxury for a moment of imagining exactly how a killer could very quickly and easily stop her coming every year.

Over the woman’s shoulder he caught sight of Pasqual Weaver looking at him, her creamy tits pushed up high in that black cocktail dress, and decided the evening might not be a complete waste of time. He turned his gaze back to the woman and smiled, hoping Pasqual would note his charming boyish grin. ‘Yeah? Good for you. That’s the good old Canadian spirit.’

‘Oh, we’re from Idaho.’

I’ll bet you are, lady, he thought, and drained his glass.

Eric Sindon leaned against the wall by the wine table and scanned the room. There weren’t very many nice people in it. Same at every celebrity ski. It attracted the ones who didn’t give a dog’s ball for charity. They merely had cash and a desire to swan around the hotel with their I’m skiing for those who can’t badges on, getting on the tits of the famous people who for once could neither complain or escape.

He mused for a moment what the count would be in here right now, if St Peter appeared with the trumpet that sounded judgement day. Would this be a room full of good like the badges suggested, or a watered-silk wallpapered holding area of evil?

He thought of the decent families who dropped their dollars as a matter of course into the charity bins in the lodge restaurant, never questioning their obligation to do so. How come they never came to these bun-fights? They didn’t. But they would line the ski course and hold their children up to get a view of the skiers, and they were always the ones who stopped and spoke kindly to the poor bastards the money was for in the first place; the cripples and the cancer victims who were always wheeled out to see the heroes skiing for their benefit. He had watched those good-hearted people and wished they could see through this crowd of perfumed piranhas pretending to do good.

That guy over there with the Rolex on. What did he do to get his money? Something decent? Some fucking chance. Eric had watched one of the company girls ask him to contribute to the raffle that was an extra to build a conservatory for the hospice in Stoke. He’d watched that mouth spit the words into the girl’s face, ‘I paid enough for this frigging ticket already, sweetheart.’

That mouth was now being stuffed with pastry and shrimps. Eric had to turn away.