‘Can’t recall,’ he replies. Duval speaks slowly, allowing a pause to lapse before answering. Everyone does it round here – as though it’s necessary to think long and hard before producing the most unembellished of answers. Granted this is not a part of the world where the snappy rejoinder is celebrated, even so, it’s hard to get used to. I constantly find myself biting my tongue in order not to start other people’s sentences for them.

‘And what were they renovating the town for?’

‘Oh some kind of getaway for rich city folk.’

I take this dig with extremely good grace. ‘Why did they not get you to finish the job?’

Pause. ‘Ran out of money.’

‘Did you get paid at least?’

Pause. ‘Yup.’

‘You’re lucky. The whole group went bankrupt – that’s how we ended up here.’

There’s no need for me to elaborate on my back story other than a desire to distance myself from any profligacy on the part of the former owners. To some-how illustrate to this man, who probably doesn’t care one way or the other, that I’m different, that I’m going to be honest and fair and straightforward to deal with. You and me, mate, we’re going to see eye to eye. It’s a little sad, and don’t I know it – but if my cowboy builder were a chippie from the East End, I’d probably be talking cockney by now.

Duval leans back in his chair as though to confirm that as far as he is concerned, one absentee owner is pretty much the same as any other.

‘Do you know how much they spent?’ I persist. ‘Including everything . . . generators, utilities, the well?’

Such a long pause now, that I wonder whether he’s adding it all up in his head, nut by screw by bolt.’ ‘Bout three hundred thousand,’ he says finally.

I whistle.

‘It’s an expensive business finding water in the desert, Mrs Coleman.’

As his expression betrays no trace of irony, I assume none is intended. ‘Call me Alice,’ I murmur.

He flicks through the rest of the drawings and I stare at his hands. His nails are black with dirt. A deep, partially healed cut runs through the middle of his index finger. ‘So what is it you’ve got in mind for the place?’ he asks.

‘Oh, you know,’ I lean back in my chair, ‘some kind of getaway for rich city folk.’

For the very shortest second his eyes flick to mine. Gotcha, I think with satisfaction.

I scribble a figure on a piece of paper and push it over to him. ‘This is what I have to play with.’

He studies it. ‘I’ll need to price the job up for you.’

‘Ballpark, though? Do you think it can be done?’

‘Maybe,’ he says non-committally.

‘Okay. Great. So ...’ I stare at him awkwardly. ‘So ... how many men do you have in your crew?’