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‘The policewoman who met me. She said. . . it wasn’t an accident.’

There’s silence down the phone for a few seconds.

‘Vicky was always taking risks,’ Ed says, breaking it. ‘I’ve been reading up– those lakes can be thin in parts—’

‘I know,’ Alex says. ‘That’s what I thought. But—’

‘No. It’s not possible.’

‘Somebody killed her, Dad.’

Alex delivers this news with shame, like it’s his fault.

Ed breathes deeply for a few moments.

‘Do they know who?’ he says, at last.

If Alex had a name, he’d have already dealt with the bastard.

‘No. Or not that they’ve told me.’

‘So, there’ll be an investigation?’

‘Yes.’

‘By the Finnish police?’

‘Yes.’ Alex sighs. Up to last night, if you’d asked Alex if he had a problem with the Finnish police, he’d have said, of course not, I’m sure they’re up there with the best. Nordic countries are like that, aren’t they? Civilised. Efficient.

But now his sister is dead. Murdered. And Alex wants the comfort of speaking to English detectives, to a police service he understands and can navigate.

To his father he says: ‘I’m sure they know what they’re doing.’

His father doesn’t answer.

‘I’m going to stay here,’ Alex rushes to add. ‘They’re not releasing her body yet. I’m going to find out what’s going on.’

‘Good. Don’t let them fob you off. You find out the truth.’

Alex nods agreement on his end of the call.

‘And Alex,’ Ed adds, a note of caution in his voice. ‘I understand what you might be planning. I’m thinking the same thing. But, when you do find out who hurt her, let the police do their job. Don’t go thinking you can sort this with your fists. Do you hear me? That fucker should live with what he’s done.’

Alex takes a deep breath.

‘For fuck’s sake, Dad.’

‘In the hospital,’ Ed says. ‘You lost your temper. You hit the wall.’

‘You’d just told me my sister was dead.’

His father says nothing and Alex lets it go. This is old ground. He’s not doing this now, nor should he have to. He’s a grown man, with a successful job and life, and he won’t let his father revise that.

They say goodbye with the rest unspoken.

It takes a full five minutes before he calms down.

He dials Charlie next.

Charlie is already up, on his way into the office. Alex can hear the sounds of London rush hour in the background.

‘Alex, boy. Desperate. Just desperate. Did everything go okay with the flights and hotel? Everybody’s asking for you. This close to Christmas, too. And such a lovely girl.’ Charlie takes a breath. ‘Alex, I’m just curious, mate, do you know where you left the full Cassidy file? Actually, don’t worry about it. I’ll find it. What can I do for you? You need tickets? Undertakers?’

‘She was murdered, Charlie,’ Alex says.

‘Fuck me.’

Charlie falls uncharacteristically silent.

‘I’m going to stay here, ask around,’ Alex adds. ‘The cop in charge is barely out of uniform by the looks of it. Dropped the bomb last night while she was eating a burger.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘I’m due a few weeks’ leave.’

‘The partners will understand. If you’re back after New Year’s, nobody will bat an eye. . .’

Alex grimaces. He can’t imagine returning to normality, or a time beyond this.

‘What else?’ Charlie says. ‘You want a PI? I know a few. A pal of mine, her husband was screwing his secretary. She got a lovely little dossier compiled on him before she dragged his arse to court.’

‘I’m okay, for now. The Cassidy file is on my desktop. You know the password.’

‘Tough times, Alex. If you need anything, I’m a call away, right? Money, contacts, whatever. Just say. I’ll get on top of the Cassidy stuff. Elicit some sympathy in government ranks for your current predicament. They have to give port control to somebody. You leave it to me.’

Alex hastens the goodbye. He couldn’t give less of a fuck about his clients or government contracts. When he hangs up, he stares blankly at the 4K images of Lapland showing on loop on the OLED TV screen.

Agatha meets him downstairs at the breakfast buffet. Alex mumbles an apology for storming off at dinner; she dismisses it with a wave and apologises in turn for her lack of tact.

Order is restored, but he still doesn’t mention Vicky’s second email account. His amateur hacking attempt before bed last night was unsuccessful and he’s determined to check that account before he alerts Agatha to its existence. As far as he knows, Vicky only used it for him but what if he’s wrong? What if she was communicating with others?

He waits for a coffee from a machine that looks like it was designed by NASA while she piles two plates with various pastries.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Alex says.

‘You have no appetite,’ she tells him. ‘It’s not the same thing. I ruined your dinner last night, so you haven’t eaten. Breakfast is important.’

The hotel agrees, Alex thinks, as he looks around the huge buffet area, which features all manner of cereals, pastries and hot foods, not to mention a collection of ice buckets filled with champagne bottles for early morning mimosas.

‘Food is a practical requirement here,’ Agatha says. ‘Dieting is for people who want to freeze to death. I always have grain bars in my pockets.’

Alex doesn’t reply that anything he eats now will most likely come back up when he lays eyes on his dead sister.

They take a seat in one of the comfortable booths and Alex glances at the cover of the national newspaper. It’s all in Finnish; he can’t understand a word and doesn’t recognise any of the people photographed.

‘Is it in the paper?’ he asks Agatha.

‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘We get a lot of accidents in Lapland this time of year. Tourists mainly, but also locals. The national newspapers don’t tend to cover them, unless they get a statement to say it’s more serious. Which we haven’t issued yet.’

‘Why don’t they cover accidents?’

Agatha cocks her head sideways. She appears to be waiting for Alex to run the calculations.

‘Bad for tourism,’ he says.

‘People don’t realise that when they come here, they’re only ever moments from death.’ Agatha sighs. ‘The weather, the landscape, the wildlife. It’s not always hospitable. If ever. It’s one thing staying at the Christmas villages. But people who stray further up. . .’

‘Why do they come? Don’t answer that. Adrenaline junkies.’

‘Lapland madness, they call it. You come here, you enjoy the extreme sports, you celebrate in warmth and luxury after. Sleep in an ice igloo. If you’re lucky, you’ll see the fox fires light up the sky.’

‘Fox fires?’

‘The revontulet . The Northern Lights.’

Alex stares into his coffee. He takes a bite of a little bun. It’s warm, custardy and has a distinct cinnamon taste.

‘I’m going to stay for a while,’ Alex says, after a moment.

‘In the hotel?’ Agatha asks.

‘No. In Lapland. I can’t bring Vicky home yet, so I may as well talk to the people who worked with her. See where she lived. Collect her things.’

Agatha puts down her coffee cup and stares at him.

‘Alex, I’m not sure what’s going through your head but you can’t run your own investigation into your sister’s death.’

‘I never said that.’

‘But I strongly suspect it’s what you’re planning. You do not trust that I can do my job. You think I need a big team, like you’re used to in England. You expect an army of officers combing crime scenes, and press conferences, and everybody she worked with to be pulled in for interrogation—’

‘Are you saying they won’t be?’ Alex interrupts.

‘Of course they will, they already are, but you don’t understand this place, you don’t know what policing is like here. Lapland is vast but it is not very populated. And your sister was murdered weeks ago– already this is a different type of case. We can’t rely on DNA, because she was in the water. We don’t have CCTV up here. People forget things when they are not in the immediate past. This won’t be like investigations you might be used to, but it will be effective.’

‘How many murders have you solved in Koppe?’

‘None.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘In Koppe, none. In Rovaniemi, I was on nine murder cases, most of them domestic violence-related. Alex, we don’t get a lot of murder over here. And we’ve never had one in Koppe in the years I’ve been in charge.’

‘Until now.’

‘Until now,’ she repeats.

‘And you wonder why I’m not brimming with confidence.’

He puts his coffee down.

‘I’m ready to see her.’

Venla steps into the corridor when Alex is in with his sister. She and Agatha lean out the window, taking short puffs of a shared cigarette. Agatha used to smoke all the time, but she won’t around the children. She doesn’t drink much around them either; doesn’t want them thinking she too might not be able to control herself. They’ve had enough of that in their lives.

But right now, she needs a bloody cigarette.

‘He isn’t crying,’ Venla tells Agatha. ‘But he’s simmering. Looks the sort to hold it all in until he has a breakdown in about ten years’ time because somebody’s made him a sandwich with the wrong filling and it’s the final straw. He’s got a lot of rage in him. I can tell.’

‘And he’s coming up to Koppe,’ Agatha says.

‘Oh dear.’

Venla takes a drag from the cigarette then hands it back to Agatha. ‘A Brit who doesn’t trust the locals. Why am I not surprised?’

‘If your sister died over there, would you just leave it to their police?’

‘Magnanimous of you,’ Venla says. She turns and rests her butt against the windowsill, heating her cheeks on the radiator that sits below it. ‘I suppose the Brits know what they’re doing, don’t they? I’ve streamed Luther .’

She looks Agatha dead in the eye.

‘He can solve my imaginary sister’s death any day.’

Agatha gives Venla’s shoulder a gentle dig.

‘Hey, I never even asked yesterday,’ Venla says. ‘How are the kids?’

‘Good.’

Agatha pulls up a recent photograph on her phone.

‘God, Emilia is all grown up. She looks so like you.’

Agatha smiles, then frowns.

‘Olavi is biting now.’

‘Other parents complain?’

‘No. He’s biting himself, not other kids, thankfully.’

‘He’ll forget, eventually,’ Venla says. ‘They all will.’

Venla knows the family’s story. When Agatha came down for Venla’s fortieth last year, the pathologist tried to convince Agatha to apply for a police transfer with a foreign force; Venla knows that Agatha won’t ever really feel at peace while the ghost that haunts her and the children still knows where they live.

But Agatha can’t leave. Lapland is her home.

‘Hey, I mean it,’ Venla says. ‘They’re great kids and they have you. They’ll be fine. You all will.’

Agatha shrugs. Can anyone forget trauma?

Will they ever be allowed to?

Inside, Alex is standing beside Vicky and thinking he will never recover from this moment.

They’ve always looked alike, he and his sister. Dark-haired, dark features, good cheekbones.

This thing in front of him is not his sister. It’s not just the shaved head– which is something Vicky would do for a dare– or the off pallor of her skin and blackened, frostbitten extremities.

It’s her stillness. He can’t ever remember Vicky being this still. She was effervescent. She was always active. Couldn’t sit in one place.

Her very essence has been extinguished.

She’d have fought very hard to stay alive. Vicky loved life. Every dangerous thing Vicky did, every adrenaline shot she chased, it was all so she could feel more. Whoever did this robbed her of something to which she’d clung dearly.

He feels a fury so great it threatens to overwhelm him. He sways on his feet and brings his face closer to hers.

‘I’m sorry, Vicky,’ he whispers. ‘I’m sorry for cutting you out.’

He hopes she can hear him.

It’s light by the time Alex and Agatha leave the morgue and set off on the road for Koppe, on the shores of Lake Inari. It’s the first time Alex has seen any daylight– if that’s what this gloom is, in Finland. When they left the hotel this morning, it was still dark.

For the first hour of the drive, he says nothing. He’s still thinking about what he’s just seen.

But, eventually, he begins to notice the landscape.

‘There are so many trees,’ he says, without even realising he’s spoken aloud. He thinks they’re trees, anyway. They’re so heavy with rime and freshly fallen snow, they look almost like sculptures. He can’t understand how they haven’t snapped under the weight of what the weather has thrown at them.

‘Yes, but they’re all the same,’ Agatha says. ‘Birch. Spruce. Birch. Pine. Birch. Until you get to the top of Lapland, where there are hardly any trees at all. But, yes. Almost three quarters of Finland is covered in forest. It’s sort of what we’re known for.’

She waves at a passing vehicle on a tight stretch of the road. Alex has no idea how she can drive with such confidence in such conditions.

‘It looks different in the light, doesn’t it?’ she says. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts. This time of year, we’re lucky if we get five hours of daylight and even then, most days it’s just dull.’

‘Does it get depressing?’ Alex asks.

Agatha shrugs.

‘We’re used to it. You know Rovaniemi is the gateway to the Arctic Circle? The line runs through the Santa Village. By the end of summer, we’re so tired of having endless days and no nights that it kind of balances itself out. Technically, we have eight seasons in Lapland. But people only ever really think of the Arctic Circle as having summer or winter.’

‘That Santa Village,’ Alex says. ‘Do the locals like it, or does it drive everybody nuts?’

‘It provides jobs,’ Agatha answers. ‘Up here, the choice is tourism or mining. The village is nice. Magical. But there are more. . . exclusive versions. Kakslauttanen is incredible. It has fields of glass igloos so you can sleep under the Northern Lights. It’s magical.’

‘But expensive?’

‘Everything is expensive. We want tourism, but the right sort. And Christmas is our Mecca. Santa is Finnish, of course.’

Alex glances sideways at Agatha.

‘You don’t believe me,’ she says. ‘But it’s the truth. Joulupukki comes from a fell called Korvatunturi. He lives there with Mother Christmas and makes toys in his workshop with his gnomes.’

‘Not elves?’

‘Pfft. American concoctions. Like that red and white suit. Everyone knows Joulupukki dresses like a goat. He’s traditionally a symbol of fertility. Horns on his head and everything. And real elves don’t work with Santa. They have their own magic.’

‘That goat suit must come as a shock to the families who buy those two-night packages,’ Alex says, dryly.

‘We tone it down,’ Agatha says, smiling. ‘You know, we get half a million letters from 198 countries delivered to the Arctic Circle post office every year. So, we have proof. We own Santa.’

She says this deadpan. Alex looks back out the window. He’s fairly certain he read recently that the real Santa Claus, St Nicolas, came from Turkey and is buried in Ireland. Santa’s tomb probably wouldn’t make as good an attraction as this snowy wonderland, though.

‘Christmas was Vicky’s favourite time of year,’ he says. ‘When the rest of the world caught up with her. . . joie de vivre .’

Agatha is looking at him now; he can feel her gaze.

‘So,’ she says, ‘when was the last time you spoke to your sister?’

It’s seamless, the segue from tour guide to detective.

‘Five months ago,’ Alex says.

He’s thought of little else but how long it’s been since he last spoke to Vicky.

‘What did you speak about?’

He looks out the window again.

‘We were talking about a gift for my parents. It was their anniversary. It was a short call. She made a suggestion about what it should be and said she’d give me the money when she was home. She always said that. Never did. She wanted to send them on a cruise. And I told her I didn’t mind subbing her on regular gifts but this was a step too far. It wasn’t even an important anniversary. She got mad. We had a go at each other. She hung up. I didn’t bother calling her back.’

Agatha nods.

‘I see. You weren’t to know what would happen.’

Alex swallows down the guilt.

‘We have her phone records,’ Agatha says. ‘I can’t see your number on them, so she didn’t try to ring you, either. These things happen with siblings. Petty squabbles. Trust me, I know.’

Alex sighs. He’ll have to tell her the truth.

‘My number isn’t on those records,’ he says, ‘because I lost my phone in August and I ended up changing networks. I didn’t give her the new number, the number you have for me.’

‘Oh,’ Agatha says.

‘So, you’ll have to check the records again before you know if she tried to call me. For my old number.’

Agatha says nothing. They both know what that means. That his sister could have needed him but she wouldn’t have been able to get through.

‘I’m sure if there was anything urgent, she would have contacted your parents,’ Agatha says, after a few awkward moments have passed.

‘Unlikely,’ Alex replies. ‘She only ever rang home when she needed a loan. She was surprisingly thoughtful, in a twisted way.’

He takes a breath.

‘We weren’t estranged, you know. I wasn’t. . . I didn’t think it would mean this much, not giving her a blasted phone number. I just needed a break. Vicky was. . . she was very loveable, in so many ways, but she never really grew up. I think it’s being the youngest, being the pet in the family. Cute when they’re small, not so cute when they’re full-grown adults. And she was prone to disappearing off the radar herself. It wasn’t unusual for months to pass and not hear from her. The first time she did it, we were all annoyed. When somebody does that a few times, you stop giving a shit. You get tired of being the one they can contact whenever they want.’

He stops talking. He sounds defensive. He is defensive.

They fall quiet again.

‘Maybe it’s not my place to say this,’ Agatha says. ‘But she seemed to be doing okay up here. She had friends. You shouldn’t feel guilty for looking out for yourself. You weren’t responsible for her.’

Alex tries to absorb the balm she’s offering.

‘She mentioned a couple of friends, earlier in the year,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen pictures on her Instagram, too. Looked at them on the way over. A couple of lads: Nicolas and Florian? And that woman she was friendly with. Niamh.’

Alex never spent time on social media, so the pictures were new to him. He’d pored over Vicky’s pages, scanning everybody’s face, every location shot she took, trying to immerse himself in his sister’s life.

‘When she disappeared, I mean, she didn’t turn up for work, correct?’ Alex says. ‘Why weren’t they more alarmed? She must have had some sort of routine.’

Agatha is quiet. Alex stares at her, wondering what she’s not telling him.

‘It’s like I said,’ she says. ‘The guides, they come and go. She didn’t hand in her notice. That happens sometimes.’

She sounds cautious in her reply. Alex knows now there’s more.

The keychain is still dangling from the rear-view mirror and Alex watches it spin. Three children.

‘Those are your kids?’ he says.

She nods.

One of the kids looks to be in her teens. Maybe they just start younger over here, Alex thinks. All those dark nights. Nothing to do but make babies.

‘Did Vicky give you any indication anything was wrong when you talked to her that last time?’ Agatha asks.

Alex narrows his eyes.

‘She sounded. . . excited,’ he says. ‘Particularly so. Like she was in the mood for celebrating. Hence the suggestion of a big present for our folks.’

‘No hint that she’d fallen out with anybody?’

‘Nothing like that. Do you think it was somebody she worked with who did this?’

‘I don’t know. While I was down in Rovaniemi, my officers finished questioning the Lodge staff. Like I said, we have a last known sighting for Vicky and we’re assuming she died that night or very soon afterwards. So, those immediate hours after she was seen have become very important. And everybody she worked with has given us an alibi.’

Agatha seems to hesitate.

‘There were a lot of tourists in the resort last month.’ She sighs. ‘It was at capacity. Cheaper in November than December.’

Alex thinks about this.

‘Tourists,’ he says. ‘Does that mean—’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘If it was a tourist, he or she could be long gone.’

‘He or she? Could it have been a woman?’

‘I can’t rule it out.’

They don’t talk for a while. As they drive, Alex realises how sparsely populated this part of the world is. He’s never seen anything like it. They pass through what Agatha tells him is euphemistically referred to as a town, and stop for coffee and the facilities. It has a small garage and three or four houses, from what Alex can see. He buys a blue paper-wrapped chocolate bar labelled with the name Karl Fazer. He needs a sugar hit to go with the strong coffee. He tries to use his card at the till, but Agatha won’t let him, tapping hers instead.

Back in the car, they don’t see another house for an hour.

She seems unaffected by the driving, used to the long distances and eerie emptiness of the surrounds.

Alex starts to drift into a semi-sleep, lulled by the repetitive scenery of trees and snow, snow and trees.

He opens his eyes when the car slows and sees that they’re approaching another town. A sign tells him that it’s Koppe.

The town is situated in a valley, mountains on either side, and the road begins to descend towards it.

The few outlying houses give way to a K-Market, some more low-lying buildings– lights already glistening in their windows to ward off the oncoming winter night– and then, below the town and beyond the tree line, he glimpses Lake Inari.

It’s huge; a great frozen expanse of nothingness.

A billboard tells him Koppe is populated with four hundred people, but the large hotel they pass on the hill down has him guessing there are a lot more people in residence.

‘Here we are,’ Agatha says. ‘Koppe. Almost the edge of the world.’

Alex looks at the dots descending down one of the slopes at speed and realises they’re skiers. And then he sees a sign telling them where to turn for Koppe Lodge and the tourist cabins.

Something is niggling at Alex. Something he can’t put his finger on, but something he knows he’s forgotten to ask because he’s tired and he’s still in shock.

Something that doesn’t add up in what Agatha has told him about his sister going missing.