‘Alice, you keep on inviting people into your house, soon they’ll be sleeping in your bed, eating your food, using your shower. The house won’t sustain the people. The house isn’t big enough for all the people and the house will eventually fall down.’

‘Like my wife says,’ Hogan has on his pulpit voice now, ‘we’re all caring souls, but our compassion stops at the border. Once these people cross the line, they’re criminals and I have no sympathy for criminals. My duty is to American citizens. I have no choice but to turn these people back.’

‘Won’t they just try to cross again?’

‘We convince them not to.’

‘I see . . . How?’ I ask quietly.

Selby and Lane look at each other uneasily.

‘Ma’am, no disrespect, but this is a man’s conversation and one I’d prefer to have with your husband.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I push up from the sofa. I have to get out of here. I make my goodbyes and promise Hogan I’ll pass everything on to Robert when we next speak.

‘Or if you prefer,’ he offers, ‘I’ll call him myself.’

‘Mr Hogan!’ I curb a strong impulse to squeeze my hands round his throat.

‘Ma’am?’

‘May I speak frankly?’

‘Of course. You’re amongst friends here!’ Helen says.

‘Robert’s mother has just died and this is a very difficult time for him and though he would think it rude to say so himself, being English and all, I’m sure you can appreciate he needs to be left alone to grieve. Actually, we both do.’

‘Why, you poor things.’ Helen looks mortified. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Were you very close to her?’

‘Very.’ I contort my face into an expression of pious sorrow then canter towards the emergency exit. Hogan follows close behind. At the door he shakes my hand in his ponderous way and I can almost taste the fresh air when he implores me to wait and disappears into the hall cupboard, re-emerging with a plastic bag of fawncoloured caps with ‘Ranch Rights’ printed on them.

‘Take a couple for the kids as well,’ he says, beaming, ‘After all, one size fits all!’

23

‘Why do people like Jeff Hogan move here if they feel it so beneath them?’ I say irritably. ‘And what’s with the ghastly Betty Crocker wife? I mean, where do you find women like that these days?’

‘e-Bay, probably,’ Duval says, scanning the breakfast menu, and I laugh. ‘There’s money to be made on any border and Jeff Hogan thinks he’s the man to do it.’

‘And is he?’