‘Only everyone in the world,’ snapped Benjamin. ‘Nowadays there’s no strolling around looking in at places you fancy. People are like sheep. They rush to the suggestions at the top of the list, and steer well clear of the ones at the bottom. It’s a self-perpetuating load of rubbish.’

‘Couldn’t we get someone to march around the streets with a sandwich board telling them to ignore what’s on the app?’ Zoe looked up. The stray false eyelash finally lost its grip and fluttered to the floor. ‘Hello? Did somebody turn the lights on?’

The restaurant front door slammed and Carol stepped into the kitchen. ‘That doggone van. I love her but . . .’ Carol’s face was streaked with oil and her hands were black. ‘I persuaded the garage to do a patch job, just to get me home,’ she announced. ‘But the darned old girl broke down trying to climb up the hill to get on to the main road. I’ve spent the last three hours jacking her up, lying on my back underneath her, giving her the once-over, and finally she’s on the road again.’

‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ added Zoe.

‘I didn’t think that Mech. Eng. would have been quite your scene,’ said Benjamin, curling his lip at the sight of Carol’s soiled clothes.

‘What do you mean, darling? I’ve always adored engines. I’m fascinated with everything mechanical.’

‘But did you manage to collect the fish and veg?’ William stepped forward, his mind forever practical.

‘I’m not Louis Hamilton.’ Carol threw down the keys. ‘I thought you’d be pleased with me for getting the van back in one piece. Did they find the girl?’

‘What girl?’ asked Zoe.

‘My grandchild. No.’ Theresa moved towards the oven to turn it on, getting ready to start baking some potatoes. ‘But I volunteered to do lunch. This afternoon I have to devote my time to finding Chloe.’

‘I thought we were here to offload this restaurant . . . sorry, I mean this money-disposal unit . . . to the irritating twit next door?’ Zoe boomed.

A sharp rap on the back door, and Marcel walked in.

‘I may be French,’ he said, ‘but I realise that a “twit” is not necessarily a good thing.’ He glanced at the tray of individual pies on the counter. ‘I see you are back, Theresa.’

Theresa forced a smile.

Marcel did not return the gesture. ‘Restaurant sans terrace, trente couverts,’ he said. ‘For a swift sale I will offer you two hundred thousand euros. Final offer.’ He turned towards the door. ‘You have till this time tomorrow; after that the offer is withdrawn.’

‘That’s less than we paid for it.’ Zoe attempted a look of horror, causing her remaining eyelash to tumble down and land on her cheek.

‘It’s an insult!’ screeched Benjamin.

‘If your reviews are anything to go by, overpriced.’