Apartment 121 has a heavy wooden door. That makes three layers of security—I’ve been counting. If someone wanted to abduct Biggs, they wouldn’t have chosen this location. Thistle knocks. A young woman in a grey turtleneck and sweatpants opens the door. Looks like pyjamas, even though it’s ten-thirty am. Her eyes are wide with fear. She’s five foot nothing, with darker skin than Biggs. She mostly got her mother’s genes, I guess.

‘We haven’t found your dad yet,’ Thistle says quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Hope.’

The young woman deflates. She looks both relieved and miserable. ‘Oh. Okay.’

‘My associate, Timothy Blake, would like to ask some follow-up questions,’ Thistle says. ‘If that’s all right with you.’

‘Sure, I guess. Come in.’ As Hope turns away, I notice a small bald patch on the back of her head. Maybe she’s been pulling her hair out.

The apartment is larger than you’d think, but dark. Two levels. Smells faintly of air freshener. Plenty of framed photos on the walls—not just Hope, Biggs and a Latina woman who must be Gabriela, but extended family, too. Cousins, uncles, grandmas. Mostly on Gabriela’s side, going by skin colour. I wonder if Thistle has called all these people already.

Around the corner to the living room where Gabriela is sitting on an expensive leather sofa, like she’s in therapy. In place of a therapist there’s an ultra-HD TV with the sound turned down. The news comes out as a faint muttering through surround-sound speakers discreetly built into the walls, as though the apartment is haunted.

Unlike her daughter, Gabriela is dressed formally in tailored pants and a silk blouse. A crucifix hangs from a gold chain around her neck.

She stands up when we enter. Four foot five at the most, even in her polished heels. Possibly Guatemalan—after centuries of poverty and war at the hands of US-backed dictators, the average height in Guatemala is much lower than Mexico, or anywhere else in Central America. She has the hollow-eyed look people get after a flood, or a terrorist attack.

‘Agent Thistle,’ she says, in slightly accented English, ‘any news?’

Thistle shakes her head. ‘Nothing yet, I’m sorry. Do you have a moment to answer some questions?’

‘Of course. I will do anything to help. Can I make for you tea or coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’ Thistle shoots me a warning glance.

I actually think making tea or coffee might help her—sometimes having something to do with your hands can ease trauma. When my dark thoughts get the better of me, I solve Rubik’s Cubes. But I take the hint.

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘My name’s Timothy Blake. I’m a civilian consultant, assisting with the search. I was hoping you could tell me a little about Kenneth’s home life?’

Gabriela fiddles with a gold chain around her wrist. ‘Of course,’ she says again.