‘Just do it!’ snapped Theresa.

The clerk slithered out from behind the desk and ran up the stairs, skeleton key in hand.

‘Have you come to visit your special room, Grandma?’ asked Lola. ‘Cressy and I found it the other day when we were exploring.’

Over the child’s shoulder, Theresa could see that it was actually Cynthia, who now looked extremely elegant and self-contained. Nothing at all like the drunken woman they had visited days before.

She was standing close to Roger, but the couple were quarrelling – and the subject was their son Neil.

Theresa moved across to them.

‘We should go, Roger,’ she said. ‘They can’t have got far. I just have to take my other granddaughter back to her mother.’ Theresa took Lola by the hand. ‘Where’s Mummy, darling?’

‘Mummy’s gone out to see the ballet at Monte Carlo. We’re sitting in the bar with Frances, the magic dragon. She can make smoke come out of her nose. Come along.’ Lola tugged at Theresa’s hand, pulling her along the passageway.

‘Roger, Cynthia,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘Please wait for me. I can’t be responsible for the loss of two grandchildren in one day. I won’t be a minute.’

Both Roger and Cynthia stood together still, stabbing at their phones, presumably trying to contact Neil.

Lola turned off the corridor and pushed Theresa through a door marked ‘Storeroom. No Entry’.

‘This isn’t the bar,’ said Theresa, pulling back.

‘No. It’s your room, Grandma.’

As Lola marched into the tiny room, Theresa remained on the threshold, not believing her eyes.

The walls were covered with photos of herself. Photos blown up to gigantic size. The photo of her on the terrace. Photos from the album. Photos of her walking along the quay, sitting on benches, having breakfast on the terrace of the brasserie this morning. A photo of her in her nightgown, staring up in the darkness.

‘Did you do this?’ Theresa didn’t know why she had asked such a stupid question. This was clearly not the work of a child. She glanced along the countertops and shelves. Boxes marked Serviettes, Plateaux and Nappes, piled high. There was a glass-fronted refrigerator.

Inside were more boxes, marked Oeufs, Bacon and Saucissons.

It was obviously the storeroom for things the hotel used for breakfasts and room service. And by the look of the refrigerator, Cyril had recently been here.

A touch on Theresa’s shoulder and she leaped into the air. But it was only Frances.

‘Lola! You little rascal. Theresa! Thank goodness for that. I thought Lola had done a runner too.’

‘How did you know?’

‘My God! A shrine!’ Frances stopped short and peered over Theresa’s shoulder. ‘What’s this all about? Is it an art installation of some kind?’

‘I have a stalker.’ Theresa lowered her voice to reply into Frances’s ear. ‘It seems that Lola has just discovered his hideout.’