Billy reached up and brushed the hair out of her tear-stained eyes. ‘Louis Kildare will get him back here. You can be sure of it. But, Nance, you can’t let on where you were. Promise me you won’t. Get to your quarters, and get up tomorrow morning as if nothing ever happened.’ He paused. ‘I’ll come and find you tomorrow. See that you’re well . . .’

Nancy looked up at the gleaming white facade of the hotel. ‘You don’t need to do that, Billy.’

‘Nance, I want to,’ Billy said. Then he was gone.

Nancy approached the Buckingham with her heart still pounding, the image of Raymond covered in blood still flashing in front of her eyes. So lost in the images was she that she thought nothing of it as she tramped up the grand marble staircase and pushed through the revolving Art Deco door. She registered nothing wrong as her heels clicked across the red and black chequers of the reception, past the striking obelisk and towards the golden guest lift. The first moment she understood anything was wrong at all was when the hand of Mr Simenon landed on her shoulder and spun her bodily around.

‘Nettleton!’ he gasped. ‘What in the name of all that is holy do you think you’re doing?’

As his eyes bored into her, Nancy had the sinking realisation of what she had done. The staff entrance on Michaelmas Mews. She was, she recalled with a terrible finality, supposed to be invisible.

‘Come with me, Miss Nettleton,’ Mr Simenon said. His voice had the sibilance of a snake. It was as if he’d been slithering around reception all evening, just waiting for somebody to pounce upon. ‘It’s high time we talked about your behaviour at our proud hotel – and, as fortune would have it, your very own Mrs Moffatt is burning the midnight oil this evening. So perhaps it is just and right that you explain yourself to her. Some of us work like dogs to ensure the smooth running of this hotel, Miss Nettleton, while some of us think we’re better than everyone else, don’t we? Now, come this way . . . ’

Nancy was shaking as she followed him down the hall, past the hotel director’s office, and to the door marked HOUSEKEEPING. She remembered sitting here on her very first day. Barely two months ago and yet how far away it seemed!

Mr Simenon instructed her to stand outside and, with barely a knock, he disappeared through the door. Moments later, he reappeared, leaving the door wide open so that Nancy could see Mrs Moffatt still at her desk, the housekeeping ledger open in front of her and various aborted rotas scribbled on pages strewn around.

‘Good night, Miss Nettleton,’ Mr Simenon announced with an air of triumph, and marched back along the hall.