It’s still light outside when Jeff Hogan drives up the track in his big Silverado followed by Lane and the weaselly Selby in a hired car. They clatter up to the cabin, shaking hands with Robert, and exchanging backslaps as though enjoying their first college reunion in twenty years. From the safety of the doorway, I throw Hogan a look of utter loathing then compose my features and dutifully fetch beers from the fridge. On the deck I shake hands with Selby, I shake hands with Lane and I even allow Hogan to press his thin lips to my cheek because all that matters now is finding a way of getting word to Duval before the other men arrive.

Robert and Hogan are in prime schmoozing mode. They exchange expansive gestures, mutual flattery and cigars. Hogan is magnanimous in victory. ‘Mrs Coleman . . . ma’am,’ he says, looking up. ‘Don’t mistake my meaning. We’re not saying you haven’t done a fine job so far, but if you want to see a return on your money, then you’re going to have to secure this property once and for all. We throw out a big enough net, who knows what kind of fish we’ll catch?’ He lowers his voice to Robert. ‘I blame myself for not being more forceful. To think of your wife here, in danger, day in, day out. Why, if a man is capable of murder there’s no saying what he’s capable of.’ He shudders. ‘I wouldn’t want someone like that in such proximity to my own dear wife.’ And, in spite of everything, I snort as I picture Duval reduced to a state of priapic longing at the thought of Hogan’s wife, supplicating and twinkling in her rhinestone tracksuit. Hogan mistakes the noise for an exclamation of horror and pats my arm clumsily. ‘That was insensitive of me, I’m sorry. I forget this must all have come as a real shock to you.’

I’m saved by Emmy racing out of the cabin with Jack in hot pursuit. He catches her, puts his hands around her throat and lifts her up by the neck till her feet dangle off the ground like the victim of a rough-justice hanging.

‘OwOwOW!’ Emmy howls.

‘Stoppit, Jack! You’re behaving like a yob!’ Robert thunders.

‘But she’s already had three!’ Jack yells back. Silently, I pluck the bag of cookies out of Jack’s hands and empty it into the crisp bowl on the deck.

Emmy takes refuge in her father’s lap. ‘You’re going down down down,’ she spits at her brother. ‘To hell and back!’

‘Like I care!’ Jack retorts.

‘Say, little lady.’ Hogan bends down, seeking to distract her. ‘What are you going to be when you’re all grown up?’

‘Oh, Godddd,’ she groans. ‘Not again.’

‘Emmy, don’t be rude!’ Robert scolds.

‘Fine!’ she snaps. ‘I’m going to be a teenager.’