Pasqual noted the action and felt uncomfortable. Her voice was half a pitch higher when she spoke. ‘And boy, are they all keen to see you down there.’

He looked out of the window again. ‘Any of the news boys going to be there today?’

‘I guess. I guess.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘But I think they’re staking out Sam Hunt’s house right now, pretty much. You know, waiting for the big arrest.’

In other words, no. This whole fucking trip was a waste of time. Who cared about the fucking useless cripples or whatever it was this shit was in aid of. He needed publicity, and it didn’t look like he was going to get it. Del decided to get the next best thing.

‘Then I think you and I should just relax for a while. Get a bit more friendly.’

She looked at him coldly, the camp leader gone. ‘Come on Del. Play the game.’

‘Sure. I’ll come downstairs and play any game you want. You just need to play some with me. How’s that sound?’

It sounded nightmarish. She looked at this horrible old man, a brown stick figure in his expensive hotel robe, and thought fast. Was he useful? Yeah, he was really useful. He was famous for Christ’s sake, what could be more useful than that?

Would it be so terrible? No. She’d done worse for less reason. Would she make him pay for it? Yeah. And some. The possibilities for emotional, and possibly even some career-orientated, manipulation, were endless and juicy.

Pasqual Weaver looked at him some more, then walked to the bed, sat down and took off her boots.

‘Oooh. My poppet! Come here and let your Auntie Margaret eat you up!’

Jess did that oscillation in the air with her arms and legs that meant she was pretty pleased about a whole lot of stuff. Margaret took her in her arms and looked at Katie.

‘You told the police?’

Katie shook her head.

‘Why?’

‘I want to find him myself. I don’t need any more press guys chasing my tail, looking for headlines.’

Jess wriggled and moaned.

‘Come on then, poppet. Let’s go look at the train. Huh? You like that?’

Margaret looked at the mother of her burden. ‘She loves that train. Will we take her upstairs?’

‘Sure.’

The women and the baby climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the balcony, Katie lost in her white-hot thoughts, searching through endless mental files to imagine where her son might have run to.

Margaret chatted, grinning at Jess as if the words were meant for her.

‘I only opened because of the celebrity ski you know. Remember how many we got last time? Dozens. That’s how many. Even sold nine copies of Indian Tribes of the Rockies.’