Perhaps everything Chloe had said on the phone was a lie. Maybe she was being held by kidnappers, who were about to launch a ransom campaign. And the kidnappers had sent Theresa a knife, by way of a warning.

Marcel followed William into the kitchen from the dining room.

‘You have to see, I was only giving a realistic price. If things are going as well as you say, then tell me why you’re selling up? I thought I was doing you a favour, so that you could all be free of the place quickly and move on.’ He turned and faced Theresa. ‘You look upset. Has something happened?’

She was not in the mood to share her worries at this time. ‘I’m fine.’

‘If there’s anything upsetting you, Theresa, remember I am your friend.’ Marcel looked at her with that hang-dog face of his. ‘You can always come to me with any problem.’

The nerve of him! How could he be offering help when he had just insulted them all with his meagre offer for La Mosaïque?

Theresa slid the opened package along the worktop.

‘I’m fine, thank you, Marcel. It’s just that I’m hot.’ She held his waist as she squeezed past him to get to the storage fridge. ‘No pork yet? Cyril promised.’

As though on cue, there was a knock on the back door and Cyril entered.

‘Voilà!’ He put his parcels down and went through with William to get a receipt.

‘Don’t you want a quick sale, Theresa?’ asked Marcel once the others had left. ‘Or don’t you really want to sell?’

‘Frankly, at the moment, Marcel, the sale of the restaurant is the last thing on my mind. My granddaughter has run away with some boy but she is somewhere in this area and I have to find her.’

‘Chloe is fifteen, Theresa.’ Marcel laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. ‘She’s practically an adult. I’m sure she can look after herself. Adolescents! You know!’

‘Did you get my message?’ Cyril was now hovering near the doorway to the dining room. He picked up the knife in its illustrated box. ‘Phew! That’s one good knife.’

Theresa faced him. ‘Did you send me that, Cyril? A gift maybe?’

‘Not a very romantic gift.’ Cyril shrugged a no. ‘I use knives every day, all the time. I gut chickens, and saw through bones with axes.’

‘Do anonymous gifts have to be romantic?’

‘Bien sûr . . .’

‘What message, Cyril? You asked about a message.’

Cyril pulled a face, meaning ‘not here; not now’.

‘You asked if I got your message. Spit it out. It can’t be anything so private.’

‘It’s not important,’ said Cyril, slamming the knife back on to the countertop. ‘Really! Another time.’

Theresa was starting to get impatient with him. She had to get on with preparing the service. ‘Do you need anything else, Cyril?’