‘We interrogated the coyotes. When the truck broke down they were worried that with so many people the heat sensors would be tripped and the Border Patrol alerted, so they locked them inside, hijos de puta . . .’

His mouth twisted, and I thought no, thank God, not Duval, not Benjamín . . .

‘The last thing the coyotes remember before waking up in the truck themselves was heading back across the border on foot. They never saw who attacked them.’

‘I don’t understand. What happened to the people they deserted?’

‘Gone.’ He blew on his fingers. ‘Vanished. There were seventeen people inside that truck. My men have searched the area, but not a single one has been found.’

‘I see . . .’ I waited for him to go on.

‘It’s a twelve-mile walk to the nearest town. They had women with them. Two elders. It’s impossible that they could just disappear.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I told him, ‘I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.’

He leant his elbows on the table. ‘Temerosa is the nearest town, Alice.’

I permitted myself an inward smile. Duval had them safe then. They’d be at the schoolroom or already on their way north.

‘Folks who live on the border are essentially decent, well-meaning people.’ Chavez was still watching me closely. ‘They understand that Mexicans who try to cross the desert do so in their ignorance and sadness. They understand that the border exacts an agonizing toll on human life, but Alice, harbouring these individuals is against the law.’

‘I understand.’ I met his gaze directly. ‘But I’ve seen no one.’

Chavez nodded as if this was the answer he was expecting. ‘I must talk with your foreman now.’ He glanced at his paperwork then back to me. ‘Duval, isn’t it?’

I wiped my expression carefully blank. Duval wasn’t around, I told him, Benjamín neither. I offered up something about lumber yards and supply stores, but in truth I can’t remember the exact excuse.

‘In that case,’ Chavez plucked his hat off the table, ‘we will go and talk directly to his men.’

He waited by the cabin door. I held back, fussed over the whereabouts of shoes, sunglasses, trying to quell the nerves building up in my stomach. I liked Chavez, his quiet seriousness, his old-fashioned manners, such an entirely different thing to Hogan’s gauche, vulgar hospitality, but as head of the local Border Patrol, he was the natural-born enemy of Duval and thus mine by proxy. It was one thing fooling the self-righteous Hogan with forms, but I imagined Chavez had a far beadier eye for a forgery.