Theresa handed over the phone.

The policewoman took it, made her excuses and left.

Left alone with time to think, Theresa felt rather giddy. It was all so dreadful. On top of the turmoil she realised she had eaten nothing since breakfast. It was now around 7.45 p.m. French time, 6.45 here. She went to the kitchen and fumbled around trying to find something which would instantly appease her rumbling stomach.

As she was spreading a slice of toast with butter, the front door opened and Lola and Cressida were ushered in by a self-styled bohemian type with flowing black hair.

‘Hello. I’m Frances, the girls’ drama teacher.’ Frances thrust forward a hand with multiple cheap rings and bangles. ‘Imogen asked me to bring them home as soon as my rehearsal session was over this evening. She said you’d be here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Dreadful business.’

Theresa excused herself. ‘Pardon me for eating, but I’ve had nothing since breakfast.’

Frances clapped her hands and the two girls stood to attention. ‘I presume you have homework?’

The girls nodded.

‘Then would you kindly take yourselves to your rooms and start on it, while I talk to your grandmother.’

Theresa was amazed to see their immediate obedient reaction to her command.

Frances lowered her voice. ‘We have all been taken by surprise over this. Of all the children in the school, I would never have expected Chloe to do something like this. She’s always been the reliable girl.’

Frances leaned against the countertop, took an electronic cigarette from her pocket and put it to her lips. ‘You don’t mind, do you? My nerves are shattered.’

‘Did Chloe have a close friend who might know anything?’

Frances took a long drag and puffed out a cloud of strawberry-scented vapour.

‘Alice. Poor child has been given the third degree by all and sundry throughout the day. Watching her, I fear that she is devastated by the whole business, but mainly by the fact that she really didn’t guess anything, and that Chloe, her supposed best friend, held it back from her.’

Theresa’s hopes deflated a little further.

‘And there are no boyfriends lurking?’

Frances chewed on the stem of the vape.

‘No. Last autumn when she played Juliet in the school play, I did wonder about the boy who played Romeo. She was quite intense in her reading of the role, and—’

‘And the boy, Romeo . . . What has he to say?’

‘I rather think that he was more interested in Mercutio and Tybalt than poor Chloe.’ Frances laughed. ‘But she was certainly gone on him.’

‘Is he still at school?’

‘Yes. And, like Alice, has been grilled all day long. He’s barely spent any time with her this term.’ Frances emitted another sickly-sweet puff of vapour. ‘We haven’t sat idly on our hands, you know.’

‘No one else from school has gone missing?’

‘Absolutely not. Look, I’m glad to share information with you, but please don’t imagine we have left any stone unturned. I think Imogen needed you here because of the other two kids. Poor things.’ She took another puff of her vape. The scent niggled Theresa with some long-forgotten memory, and suddenly she remembered what it was. A childhood ‘treat’. On Sunday mornings, her mother had opened a can of strawberries and laid a few on top of her bowl of cornflakes. Her recollection had them as something like limp, red, sticky surgical swabs. The drama teacher looked at her watch. ‘Oh God. Look at the time. Must rush. We’re rehearsing Treasure Island tonight. All that ship business and X marks the spot. It’s all go.’