“The position she’s in—” I stop, swallow again, but before I can find words to go on, Carl is interrupting.

“How do we know she’s definitely there though?” His expression is truculent. “I mean this whole place has shit phone reception. How can Elliot say those coordinates are right?”

I look around for Elliot. Where is he?

“My understanding is that GPS doesn’t rely on phone reception,” I fumble, still desperately scanning the room for his face, willing him to step in and explain the technicalities of how Snoop gets its geolocation information. I am way out of my depth here. “I mean obviously you have to relay the positioning, you can’t do that without some kind of information exchange, but the GPS coordinates themselves don’t rely on mobile towers for accuracy, they’re… satellite, I think? Is that right, Elliot?” But I can’t see him. “Where is Elliot?”

Other people are looking around now, asking themselves the same question.

“He was up in his room when I last saw him,” Ani says, frowning. “He was working on something. He’s probably got his headphones on, didn’t hear the gong. I’ll go and get him.”

She turns and runs lightly up the spiral staircase and we hear her footsteps receding down the corridor towards Elliot’s room, and the rat-a-tat on his door.

No answer. She knocks again, more loudly, and then calls, “Elliot?” through the wood.

There is a pause. I imagine her cautiously opening the door, venturing forwards to tap Elliot on the shoulder… but my mental picture is broken into shards by a scream. And not just a little shriek of surprise either. This is a full-throated panic-cry.

With my injured ankle, I’m not first up the stairs. Topher, Rik, Danny, and Miranda are ahead of me, and Liz and Carl both jostle past me halfway up. By the time I reach the first floor I can hear Ani’s sobbing cries of “Oh God, he’s dead, he’s dead!” and Topher’s brusque, impatient, “Stop being hysterical.”

When I finally make it to the end of the corridor and push my way into Elliot’s room, everything looks completely normal, except for two things.

Elliot is lying slumped across the little desk by the window. He is facedown in a pool of black coffee, spilled from a cup tipped on its side.

Next to his desk, on a towel on the floor, is his computer, and it has been smashed to pieces.

LIZ

Snoop ID: ANON101

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 0

Snoopscribers: 1

Elliot is dead. You can tell that without even touching him. There is something about the unnatural way he is slumped, one arm hanging limp, the spilled coffee pooling around his face and in his eyes.

But it is not only that. It is what has happened to his computer that makes it clear. Elliot would have died before he let anyone touch that computer.

It has been—wrecked doesn’t seem the right word. It has been obliterated. The keyboard has been ripped off, revealing the inner workings of the device. The screen has cracked, and a dark stain is spreading across the LCD. And finally, the hard drive has been pulled out, cracked open, and bent and twisted beyond all recognition.

“What—” Topher’s face is white and stark. He looks more frightened than I have ever seen him. “What’s happened? Oh my God, oh God, oh Jesus—he wanted to tell me something and I didn’t—I wouldn’t let—oh God…”

He stumbles from the room. He looks like he might be sick.

Ani appears struck completely dumb by the discovery. She simply stands there, gaping, tears streaming silently down her face, until Tiger takes her arm and leads her away.

It is Erin who speaks.

“Everyone, out.”

“What?” Carl says it stupidly. He looks like a boxer who has taken too many blows to the head.

“Out. Out of the room. This is a crime scene.”

She goes across to Elliot, puts two fingers to his neck, pulls Elliot’s eyelids back, and then shakes her head very slightly at Danny.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Danny says to the rest of the room. He sounds almost angry. “Didn’t you hear what she said? Get out.”

We file out. Erin takes a staff key from her pocket and locks the door behind us. Her face is outwardly calm, but I think underneath it she is holding down panic.

“Inigo,” she says, “I know I don’t need to tell you this, but please keep checking for reception with your phone. It’s absolutely imperative that we get hold of the police, now.”

“Uh, yes, of course.” Inigo looks as stunned as Carl. “I’ll go now, and check. I left it downstairs.”

“What can we do?” Miranda says blankly to Erin. “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” Erin says. Her face is grim now. “There is nothing we can do. Try to keep it together until the search and rescue come.”

ERIN

Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 5

Snoopscribers: 10

In the kitchen, Danny stands with his back to the door as if his weight can shut out the reality of what we left behind us, and he stares at me with an expression of horror.

“Fuck,” he says. And I can’t think of anything to say in reply. Because what else is there to say? This is… this is bad. This is beyond bad. And I can’t make sense of it.

“Danny, what the hell is going on?”

“I have no fucking clue, mate. Did he commit suicide?”

“Maybe.” I realize how little we know about these people—any of them. After all, Elliot could have been under any kind of pressure, and Danny and I would never have known. But that’s the thing—we don’t know. We have no idea what is happening here.

I put my hands to my head as if I can forcibly keep it together with the pressure of flesh on bone. Oh God, it feels like everything is falling apart.

“He wasn’t hurt,” I say, trying to figure it out as I speak. “I mean, I couldn’t see any physical injuries, it didn’t look like anyone had attacked him. Which means… I suppose he must have taken something. Don’t you think?”

“Drugs? Injectables? Pills?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Holy fuck. Danny, what do we do?” The reality—if you can call it that—of our predicament is sinking in. We are stuck here—very stuck, in my case, with my wrenched ankle—in a chalet with a group of people we barely know, and two of them have died in the last twenty-four hours. Eva—Eva’s death was a tragic accident. One of those horrible, awful lightning strikes that can occur in even the most tranquil places. But Elliot—surely there is no way his death can be anything but murder or suicide. A brain aneurism—a massive stroke—a heart attack—any of those might kill near enough instantly. But they don’t explain the smashed-up computer.

“Was he definitely dead?” Danny asks.

“Definitely.” I can’t suppress a shudder as I think of it.

“Are you sure?” Danny is grasping at straws, and I think he knows it, but he can’t stop himself asking. “Are you absolutely certain, mate?”

“Danny, I may have dropped out of med school without a degree, but I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know one. I promise you, he was dead. Dilated pupils, absent pulse, the works.” I don’t mention the puddle of piss under the chair. Danny doesn’t need to know about that.