‘Why would they kill him if she sent the money?’ It feels surreal to be having this conversation in the wee small hours of the morning with a Mexican who looks like Errol Flynn and talks like Tom Ridge.

‘Who knows? Perhaps less trouble to kill him than deliver him.’ He smiles at Jack who is slumped in his chair, raccoon-eyed with tiredness.

‘People tend to think of us as the bad guys, Mrs Coleman, but the last thing my agents are here to do is to hound women and children. Unfortunately, this border – any border – is home to unscrupulous smugglers of both human and narcotic cargoes and it is our job to apply the law. In your case the law stipulates that you should stay in Mexico until you either get hold of your existing passport or receive a new one.’

‘But that’s ridi—’

‘I’m aware of the irony of your situation,’ he says gently. ‘You cannot get your passport if we don’t allow you access to it.’ His fingers brush the photograph frame on the desk. ‘A sick child is a frightening thing for any parent.’

‘May I?’ I turn the frame towards me. Three children, in Sunday best, photographed against a backdrop of an azure sky and fluffy cumuli.

‘Ana, Rosa and Alfredo. They live with their mother in California.’

‘Oh . . . I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be, I see them quite often.’ He indicates the sleeping Emmy. ‘What was wrong with your little girl?’

‘Just an ear infection, but she had a fit, I panicked.’

‘She’s pretty,’ he says. He opens the drawer in his desk and brings out a sweet which he hands to Jack.

‘I’m told there is nobody you can contact who will bring your passport here, but do you have someone local who might vouch for you?’

I think of Duval, the heckler’s wrist twisted in his hand. ‘What about Jeff Hogan,’ I remember suddenly, ‘would he do?’

‘Jeff Hogan?’ Emilio Chavez looks surprised.

‘He’s my neighbour at Temerosa. He asked me to come to the meeting in Ague you spoke at last week.’

‘So,’ Chavez looks thoughtful, ‘you are the new owner of Temerosa.’

‘Do you know it?’ I take the sweet from Jack, who is struggling to pull off the wrapper.

‘I know it well. My agents used to drive up that road quite often before it was closed.’

‘What road? The road isn’t closed.’

‘There’s an old mining road out in the desert. It’s not much more than a track, but it used to take you round the mountain and almost to the border. Unfortunately, a car was washed away by flash flooding a couple of years ago. A whole family died in the accident. They closed it after that.’

‘How awful.’

‘The road was treacherous. Built across several old mining washes. There were other incidents. It should have been closed years earlier.’