‘Not the same one as the weird man. He was in one of the low windows. Bottom floor at the near end.’ Chloe’s finger was pointing up, then she shifted it. ‘But this weird bloke’s still there, making faces. Look. One, two, three, fourth-floor centre . . . Looks like he’s got no clothes on . . .’

Theresa’s mobile phone rang. She ran back in to fetch it.

‘Theresa? It’s Sally. Sorry to disturb you. But I’m on my way to the set and Eggy seems not to have shown up today. Could you do me a favour and run upstairs to ask his wife if she’s heard from him?’

Theresa glanced at Chloe in the courtyard, gazing up at the Hotel Astra, where her beloved Neil was. While Neil was in sight, Chloe would hardly notice if she popped out, just for a second. At least not while they were still talking to one another and making dramatic mimes.

Phone pressed to her ear, Theresa left the flat and walked up the steep stone steps leading upstairs. She rapped on the door. After what felt an eternity Phoebe Markham opened up.

She was clearly drunk.

‘I’ve got Sally Connor on the line.’

‘Who?’

Theresa remembered that the Markhams would only know Sally by her maiden name – her stage name.

‘Sally Doyle.’

‘What does she want?’

Theresa passed the phone over.

From Mrs Markham’s responses Theresa gathered that she had not seen her husband since early this morning when he had gone up to Sally to run through some lines and had told her that he was getting a cab into work today.

Phoebe then thrust the phone back at Theresa and slammed the door in her face.

Standing on the tiny landing Theresa continued the call: ‘All done?’

‘I’m very worried,’ said Sally.

‘They’re both mad as hatters,’ Theresa replied.

‘You don’t understand, Theresa. There are reasons. For both of them, actually. But, please, I beg you, if you see Eggy, call me at once. I am worried for him.’

Theresa gripped the handrail and slowly clomped down the vertiginous steps. She turned and re-entered her flat.

All was quiet.

She put the phone back on to the charger and went out to the courtyard.

But Chloe was not there.

Panicked, Theresa ran back inside, shoving open the doors to the spare room and then her own bedroom, then banging first and opening the bathroom door.

The flat was empty.

Chloe had fled.

Heart now hammering, Theresa ran out into the street and looked both ways. There were only a few people on the quayside. She rushed along the front, hoping that the child had gone in the direction of the brasserie.

As she came to a stop a sudden gust of wind almost pushed her over.

Marcel was out front, gathering up tablecloths and condiment bottles which would otherwise fly off. ‘Something wrong, Theresa?’

‘Have you seen my granddaughter?’