Why would a clever, good-looking young Indian like that change his name and try to live a white life? Daniel sure didn’t. He was doing just fine as an Indian. And Craig had seen enough young Kinchuinicks in town with licence plates on their trucks reading Indian and proud of it, or Bad Mudda, to know that there was little evidence of shame amongst them.

So why did Sam Hunt hate himself? That bothered him. He needed to know everything there was to know about Hunt, and if Daniel couldn’t tell him, he’d know someone who could. But there were still three morons to shift.

‘Well, gentlemen, we’ve covered everything, I think. If you want to keep an eye on the situation, we’ll talk further into the season and assess the size of the problem. But you have to call us and report thefts. All thefts. Remember that. You can’t keep it in-house.’

He stood up, signalling that the meeting was at an end. Katzenberg and Blessed gulped down the coffee they’d only just been handed, pushed back their chairs and stood, but McIntyre remained seated. He took another sip from the white mug with the RCMP blue logo on the side, and cupped it in his hands.

‘As heads of security, don’t you think it would be appropriate to give us any information you have on the murder? What if the killer is staying at one of our hotels?’

Craig went to the door and opened it. ‘If you think he is, you tell us and leave him alone. Then I’d tell housekeeping to watch he doesn’t steal the little soaps.’

The two men on their feet laughed at McIntyre’s expense. Jealousy that the carpets he patrolled were thicker than theirs and had the hotel logo printed on them, made them quick to join Craig, and McIntyre had no choice but to stand and put his mug on the table. The men shook hands with Craig and filed out, but McIntyre hung back a little and spoke softly to his crude host.

‘You know, you need the town behind you in something like this, McGee. You got an attitude problem.’

Craig didn’t smile. He imagined this man back in his small office at the Chateau telling some underling that he’d be out all morning at an important meeting with the police, and he felt a niggle of sympathy. The untalented, the mediocre and the stupid always elevate themselves to the fantasy of importance, and it was shooting fish in a barrel to bring them low. He regretted it. ‘Maybe you’re right, Mr McIntyre. We get tired. This is a tough job. Of course I’ll keep you informed if we need your help.’

McIntyre looked surprised, but a big shit-eating grin spread across his face and he shook Craig’s hand warmly. ‘No worries. Hey, we live it in the fast lane too.’