“And how do you know he’s lying?”

“Because there aren’t any snowmobile tracks anywhere near this wreck. He no more ran over it than I used to wear a minidress and go by the name of Brenda. Which means we’re being set up.”

Maybe the man thought Petrovitch was distracted for a moment. His hand strayed towards the strap of his rifle.

Petrovitch shook his head. “Whatever they’re paying you isn’t enough. Newcomen, go and get his gun before he has an attack of the heroics.”

Taking care not to come between Petrovitch and the man, Newcomen waded back to the road and circled the Inuk until he was behind him. He lifted the rifle up and over the man’s head. The shovel lay at the man’s feet, and he went to kick that away too.

Petrovitch stopped him. “Okay, let’s get this out of the way. Two sorts of people in the world, aren’t there? Those with guns, and those who dig.” He pointed at the shovel, then at the Inuk. “You dig.”

The man bent down for the shovel, and stood up again holding it. Newcomen was at his back, rifle pointing nowhere in particular, and Petrovitch was at his front, the barrel of the pistol not even wavering with a tremulous heartbeat.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” the Inuk said. “Just doing a job.”

Petrovitch waved him over. “What job was that?”

“Two guys told me to point out this crashed RV to another couple of guys who needed to see it. That’s all.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A day. Two. They told me you’d be in some fancy executive plane, and I was to flag you down.”

“What if we’d kept on going?”

“Just to radio back to them that I’d seen you.” The man put the shovel blade in the snow and took out a chunk of the RV’s paintwork. “They said I’d get paid a bonus if you stopped.”

The corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched. “Worth the money?”

“Not really.”

Petrovitch carved himself a seat and sat down while he watched the rear of the vehicle slowly emerge from the drift.

“What’s your name?” he asked, just to see if he’d lie about that, too.

“Josie. George Josie.”

He hadn’t lied. “That’s Newcomen. I’m Petrovitch.”

The man stumbled and paused, then dug with renewed energy.

“If they’d told you, would you have thought twice about taking the job?”

“Maybe more than twice,” said Josie. “The rear windshield’s all busted up. Snow’s inside.”

Petrovitch crawled up the bank made by Josie’s digging. The snow had crusted over what remained of the back window, and the shovel blade had gone straight through into the dark pit beneath.

Ice crystals dribbled into the hole and out of sight.

“I’ll put my gun away if you promise not to hit me with the spade,” said Petrovitch. “It won’t do you any good, and I’ll kill you straight after with my bare hands. Deal?”

“Guess so,” said Josie warily.

“Good decision.” Petrovitch put the safety back on and slipped the gun back into a pocket. “Now, let’s get this hole cleared. Newcomen, over here.”

“What do I do with the rifle?”

“That’s another of those leading questions you ought not to be asking. I don’t really care: George here isn’t going to shoot anyone. Are you?”

Josie moved another handful of snow away from the granulated glass. “Are you going to shoot me?”

“I’m kneeling next to you, digging. That should tell you all you need to know.”

The three of them cleared the rectangle of snow from around the window, and it grew clear that the interior of the RV was charred black. There should have been a smell, but it was cold, so very cold.

“You still got that torch, Newcomen?”

“It’s back on the plane. I can get it if you want.” He made to go, but Petrovitch shook his head.

“We can do without. But there’s little variation in temperature: everything’s yebani freezing.” He knocked away the remaining glass that clung to the rubber seal. It fell away, twinkling in the dark. “Lower me down. I’ll take a look.”

Josie was slowly working things out. “Is there someone still in there? They must be… you know.”

Petrovitch ran his mitten across the scarred interior roof of the vehicle, and showed a black hand to the Inuk. “He was dead long before he came off the road.”

“Soot?”

“I’m guessing an air-to-ground missile or a few depleted uranium rounds. Incinerated the contents in an instant.” He swung his legs around and dangled them through the hole. “And when I say contents, I mean Jason Fyfe.”

There was a fitted cupboard within reach. Petrovitch pressed against it with his toe, and though it creaked, it held. Everything loose had catapulted down to the front, and there was a jumble of soft furnishings and equipment piled around where the driver should have been.

It didn’t smell burnt. But he could taste it, a catch in the back of his throat. He slid inside and crouched. He could climb down using the wall of what was probably the toilet, and then to the bench seats in the kitchen area. That would put him just above the mess of debris.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know what he was going to find. He just needed to be certain.

He looked up at the impossibly bright sky. “I won’t be long.”

Petrovitch turned and lowered himself to his next perch. The wood bent under his weight, and the door popped open with a click. It waved at an angle for a moment, then one of the hinges gave, leaving it dangling.

“Everything okay?” asked Newcomen.

“It’s fine.” He looked down. “I hope.”

He shuffled so that he was standing on the part of the wall that was fixed to the floor, then eased himself across to the back of the first row of seats. Then again to the ones facing them: the table that should have been between them had fallen forward.

He was above the driver’s seat. The seat belt still seemed to be attached to the door pillar, the webbing strained forward and locked into position. The seat itself, seared and burnt, was lost under some singed cushions, which he scooped out of the way.

Kneeling down, Petrovitch reached forward to shift the table, which he’d just exposed. He heaved with his left hand, and it moved enough to see under it.

It was the back of a head, cracked with deep red lines between the black. No hair – the mass of brown curls had burnt off. The arms were clenched around the steering wheel, and the elbows locked in place.

“Is it him?”

“Unless you’ve got his gene sequence and a portable DNA tester, I’m going to have to do this old-school. I can pull his dental records, but yeah…” He adjusted himself on his perch. “No rings, no jewellery that I know of. Even his mother’d have trouble recognising him.”

Petrovitch looked to see if he could get any closer. Snow had forced its way through the shattered glass of the windscreen and side doors. He stamped some of it down and moved on to it.

He looked up into the rictus grin. He had Fyfe’s picture in his databanks, and used some software to overlay it on the tootight skin.

“Yes, no? What do you reckon?”

[The low light levels and the damage to the gross facial features introduce error, but we can confirm with a high degree of confidence that this was Jason Fyfe.]

“I remember once before being shown a body and I leapt to all sorts of conclusions that weren’t helpful. Or even right.”

[Then a full investigation must be carried out by the relevant authorities before the identity of the body can be established for certain. However, as a working hypothesis, it would be reasonable to assume that it is Fyfe.]

“Yeah.” He huffed. Moisture from his breath collected on the frost-rimed burns. “If things had worked out differently, this poor bastard could have been my son-in-law.”

He straightened and judged his journey back.

“I’m coming up.”