‘I have no idea.’ Theresa snatched the paper back from Carol and crumpled it up in the palms of her hands. ‘But I’m beginning to get really scared. And I have an idea I know who’s behind it all.’

‘You mean by “it all” – the photos, the gifts, the roses and all that stuff?’ Carol stared at her, goggle-eyed. ‘Who?’

‘I think it’s Cyril.’

‘Cyril? The butcher?’

‘I’d temporarily forgotten his occupation. Thanks for reminding me, Carol. Now I’m really scared.’

‘But what makes you think it’s him?’

‘Marcel just told me Cyril had said he’d been in the market the day before yesterday, taking photos. And haven’t you noticed how recently he seems to make his presence felt much more in here when he comes with deliveries?’

‘Mmmm.’ Carol held her chin in a pensive mode. ‘Now that you mention it . . .’

‘But why would Cyril do this to me? What does he want?’

‘You tell me? It’s obviously an obsession. Have you never got a sudden crush on someone? He’s clearly infatuated with you. I think he may be angry with you too.’

‘But why? What did I ever do to him?’

‘Who knows? Sometimes people perceive a slight when none is intended. Or get jealous that you seem to spend more time on someone else.’

‘But he’s married to that lovely woman with the wonderful laugh.’

‘Men are a law unto themselves. Being married doesn’t seem to stop them these days. Look at Sally’s friend.’

‘But why me? Why now?’

‘Love is a mystery and all that guff. Such things happen. You read about these stalkery obsessives all the time in newspapers. Usually when it’s too late.’

‘Oh my God, Carol, don’t say that.’ Theresa reached out and tapped a wooden spoon. ‘You don’t think it’s to do with the restaurant and us reducing his order?’

‘I think that when people get a fix on someone, logic flies out the window.’

Theresa’s phone, lying on the counter, rang and she sprang away from it.

‘Jumpy!’ Carol held out her hand to pick it up. ‘Shall I answer it? Just in case?’

Theresa nodded.

Carol put the phone to her ear. ‘No . . . I’m afraid she’s stepped away from her phone at this instant . . . I see . . . Really? Thank you. I will pass on that message.’

She handed the phone to Theresa.

‘Well?’

‘It was your daughter Imogen. I gathered that she thinks the airline people are a totally inconsiderate bunch of grasping charlatans who desired her to take out a mortgage in order to change her tickets and, consequently, for the rest of the week, they are all returning to Bellevue-sur-Mer and staying at the Hotel Astra, because even four nights in that fleapit are cheaper than changing five seats on that two-bit airline.’

William came through from the restaurant.