‘I don’t know. Everywhere. Nowhere. Last seen in Ibiza. Or was it Tenerife? I can never tell the difference between those common places.’

‘Do you perhaps have a phone number for your husband? Or an email address? Some way of contacting him? It is crucial that we find your son, who it appears has eloped with my daughter. I should point out that they are both underaged.’

‘I used to have Roger’s number.’ Mrs Muffett poured herself another drink. ‘But he changed it because I would phone to talk to Neil.’

‘And Neil? Doesn’t he have a phone? Do you have a number for him?’

‘He sometimes contacts me on one of those app things.’ Mrs Muffett suddenly put her face in her hands and started sobbing. ‘Once upon a time I had everything. And Neil was such a sweet boy. And Roger is such a pig. But boys will be boys. Roger kept saying that. Boys will be boys. And when Neil and adolescence collided, the little boy got it into his head that he wanted to be like his father, the big boy . . . and . . . When Roger left me . . .’

Mrs Muffett dissolved into a mess of tears.

Theresa moved in softly.

‘I know what that’s like, Mrs Muffett . . . when a marriage breaks up. I’m sure your son is still the sweet boy you love. Children go through many changes while they search for an identity of their own, but you must understand that we need to talk to him, urgently. If only to make sure that my granddaughter is safe.’

‘There!’ Mrs Muffett pulled her phone out of her dressing-gown pocket and dropped it on the countertop. ‘If there’s anything on there you can find. He usually uses the one with the pink 8 sign.’

Imogen opened the app and fiddled with the phone while Theresa kept Mrs Muffett talking.

‘Did Neil have any ambitions at all?’

‘He wanted to be Jack Sparrow.’

‘No desire to be in any job? Footballer? Actor? Banker?’

‘No. He used to help me out at the brasserie sometimes, for pocket money. But then his father swanned off with that young girl and he changed—’

‘Brasserie?’

‘Nothing great. La Cour. It was just down the road. I loved running it. But the swine even took that joy away. He got it in the settlement, and sold it. So now I not only have no family, but no work.’ She gave a stifled sob. ‘It was meant to be called La Coeur – French for “The Heart” – but the idiot signwriter missed out the “e”. Good thing really because I would have had to change the name to La Coeur Brisée. “The Broken Heart”. As it is, I had to live with smug French-speakers constantly pointing out that it should be Le Cour. Bloody stupid signwriter.’

‘And when did your husband go away?’