But then the call could have been from anyone in France calling her on restaurant business, perhaps simply phoning her from a car or a train and going through a tunnel.

‘We could go into school, maybe,’ Theresa suggested. ‘Ask whether anyone saw him hanging around the playgrounds or at the school gates.’

‘Do you think I haven’t already sent emails to all my staff asking them exactly that?’

In silence Theresa prepared herself a cup of tea, and sat down at the table to drink it.

‘I can’t see why I didn’t see it coming,’ said Imogen.

‘Children can be very secretive. It’s sometimes hard to read them. And when they are determined, well . . .’

Imogen scraped her chair back. ‘Oh God, I hate these chairs. They’re always wobbling.’ She stood up and strode through into the living room, where she flung herself down on to the sofa, feet up, and stared out into the darkness of the street.

Cradling her cup of tea, Theresa followed, sitting on an armchair near the coffee table.

In her pocket, her phone vibrated, then rang.

She answered.

It was Cyril, about today’s meat order.

‘Sorry, Cyril, you’ll have to speak to Sally or William. I’m terribly busy.’

‘I wonder, Theresa, if today you might like some fresh—’

‘I’m sorry but my granddaughter has gone missing. I’m in England. I really don’t care about the meat. You’ll need to speak to someone who’s actually in the kitchen.’

‘I’m very sorry to be disturbing. Pardon.’ Cyril hung up.

Theresa watched Imogen and realised that there was little she could do but be here for her.

Her phone rang again.

Imogen spun round and said furiously, ‘Don’t mind me, Mum, I’m only out of my mind with worry. Carry on, please, with your business calls.’

Chastised, Theresa rose and answered the phone while climbing up the stairs.

It was Carol.

‘Darling. Now I’m just sitting in the van in the parking opposite your flat, so I thought I’d better keep you up to date.’

Theresa had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Really, Carol, I’ve no time for La Mosaïque at the moment . . . But I—’

‘Sally told me you wanted me to keep an eye out on your place.’

‘It really doesn’t matter . . .’

‘All right. But for your information there is, at this very moment, a balding man peering through your front window. He’s literally got his face crushed up to the glass.’

Theresa was pulled up short. She turned and sat on the top step.

‘Sorry, Carol, tell me that again.’

‘A man with a bald head – not entirely bald, you know, not Captain Picard, more of a tall Winston Churchill – is looking through your front window in a rather earnest fashion.’

Theresa was now furious not to be there in person. From here what could she do?

‘Is he fat?’