The message was only some totally irrelevant suggestion sent by one of the apps recommending ‘attractive’ hotels in the vicinity. She saw the screen long enough to notice that the Hotel Astra had a score of 3.1 out of 5, which was three points higher than Theresa would have rated it.

Awake now, albeit reluctantly, she opened the socialising app which Mervin had installed yesterday, wondering whether now would be the time to try to contact Neil. She then remembered that teenage boys were famous for not getting out of bed till noon, so she laid the phone down on her bedside table and turned to face the window.

She looked up at the back windows of the hotel and wondered how many of the people sleeping there last night had been recommended to book a room by their very annoying phones.

She vaguely recalled a bit earlier hearing noises coming from the upstairs flat, followed about half an hour ago by the sound of someone clomping down the stairs, followed by the slamming of car doors. Maybe whoever it was had been heading into Nice for an early flight.

Theresa tried to nap but kept being haunted by thoughts of Chloe. Where would she have slept? Last night it was cold. She prayed that the child had found somewhere decent and warm to lay her head.

If she came by train, might Neil have been waiting for her at the station? Would she have had enough cash on her to take a cab to wherever she went? Chloe couldn’t possibly realise that Nice cabs were three times the price of those in London. What if the driver had suspected she couldn’t pay and dumped her out somewhere along the way?

Could she be walking distance from where Theresa lay, or might she be miles along the coast, at Menton or Toulon?

Theresa wondered whether she should do that thing which people did when they lost a cat – get a photograph reproduced and put it up all over the place – but simultaneously she knew that that would be a horrible thing to do, and that if either Neil or Chloe saw something like that it would be the finish.

Having a photo of Chloe always in her pocket, though, wouldn’t be a bad idea. First things first. Theresa had to find a recent photo of Chloe, then at least she could go around local cafés and hotels asking if anyone had seen her.

Theresa wished she had brought that photo of her with Neil taken after the play. Though, in full Friar Laurence gear, complete with bald wig, Neil would be unrecognisable. She might as well tout around a photo of Friar Tuck, thought Theresa. All you could see was the fatness, the baldness and the brown dress. If only she had asked Neil’s mother for a photo. But on second thoughts, perhaps not.