She left the brasserie terrace, nipped round the back alleyway and went straight into La Mosaïque kitchen.

‘Morning, old girl!’ Carol was already inside, hanging up her coat. ‘Letter came for you.’

‘What’s all this mess?’ Theresa looked around at the countertops, which were cluttered with jars and utensils.

‘Ugh. The boys never tidy up properly. Remember, you only did the beginning of the service last night. William was on his own at the end.’

Theresa realised that she had absolutely no memory of anything which had happened here the night before.

Carol sat on the countertop while Theresa put a jar of sugar back into the larder. ‘So, anyway, darling, about last night. The hills were alive, not with the sound of music but with Sally, out drinking with some drunken Lothario.’

‘How on earth do you know these things, Carol? Do you have CCTV on us all?’

‘Caught them at it!’ Carol smirked. ‘In the deep of night my driving skills were requested, cos they got themselves stranded, stuck in some run-down bar in a no-taxi, desolate, long-forgotten, non-touristic, hilltop village.’

‘What on earth were they doing there?’

‘My guess is trying not to be seen by anyone. But, hard Cheddar, old beans. Sherlock Rogers came to the rescue.’

Worktops cleared, Theresa hung her jacket on top of Carol’s coat and ripped open the letter.

‘Why would Sally care about being seen by us? She’s a free woman and over twenty-one.’

Theresa unfolded a piece of A4 paper and looked at it.

At first, she couldn’t really work out what it was: a grainy picture of a sunny café terrace, people sipping coffee and wine, reading newspapers, chattering among themselves.

Why had someone sent her this?

Then she realised that the photo had been taken in front of the terrace of Le Chat Bleu in Nice.

And seated in the corner, there she was: herself, Theresa Simmonds, all alone, nursing an espresso cup, looking straight at the camera.

Why would anyone want to lure her to a café simply to take a photo of her, then print it out and put it in the post to her at the restaurant? You’d have to be deranged to go to all that trouble. And for what? At the end of it all what on earth had you achieved?

‘You’ve gone all quiet and pale again, Theresa.’ Carol jumped down from the counter. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

Theresa held out the paper.

Carol squinted down. All she saw was a photo of Theresa sitting on the terrace of a café.

‘Well? You’d better explain.’

Theresa told her how she’d been lured into the café in Nice the day before yesterday, how she’d thought the text came from Chloe, how she sat there all afternoon waiting for no one.

‘What’s it all about?’