‘We’re talking a Mrs Hunting Wolf with a face so regularly rearranged by her husband that she lost an eye, and a son who spent most of his childhood roughing it in the foothills rather than go back to that cabin …’ He paused, as if ashamed to have said so much. ‘So they say.’

‘Hunting Wolf. That his name?’

‘Was his name. He changed it when his father left. That’s all I know. Gossip mainly.’

They pulled into Oriole and cruised up the snow-clogged street looking for the Hunt house.

‘And has Mr Sam Hunting Wolf inherited his father’s very special manual skills?’

Daniel hesitated slightly.

‘No.’

Craig picked up the hesitation.

‘Except?’

‘He hit someone once when he drove for Fox. No big deal. No charges brought.’

‘Drinker?’

‘Not that I know.’

They were there. Daniel pulled the car a little forward of the driveway, parking it between the two properties. Made it more ambiguous which house they were visiting. A kind habit.

The minute Katie Hunt opened the door and saw who it was, Craig realized she was thinking accident and bereavement. He hurried to reassure her. He knew that feeling. ‘Just some routine questions for your husband, Mrs Hunt, if we may.’ McGee flipped open the ID no one ever bothered to look at.

‘We’re having to talk to everyone who was on the hill today. I’ll explain further.’

She loosened a mouth that had become a tight slit of fear, and let them in.

Craig recognized Katie all right. He’d wandered round her museum a couple of times. Seen her messing about there and round town. He didn’t recognize Sam when the tall man got out of his seat and greeted them stiffly.

She’ll offer us coffee now, thought Craig. She didn’t. Katie took a seat with the men and waited expectantly.

Craig looked around the cosy, simple room. A lot of books, a TV with one of those computer game things plugged in, some car magazines and kids’ toys scattered on the rug like flotsam. It didn’t look like nasty stuff went on. But then psychos didn’t usually have framed photos of their hobby over the fireplace, or gory heads with an axe between the ears mounted on the wall. You had to work a bit harder than that to find them. Craig gazed longingly at a pick-up enthusiasts’ magazine with a picture of a ’fifty-six Chevy on the front, and faced up to the fact that this was an interesting, but frigging obvious lead. Craig suspected he was going to be disappointed.

‘Now that’s class,’ he said, picking up the glossy and holding it out like a grandfather examining a high school photo of his grandchild.

No one was going to agree or disagree with him.