There was no longer any doubt in his mind. They had been burgled. The entire collection, and God knows what else, was gone.

He started calling Isabelle’s mobile, then stopped and dialled 999 instead.

Isabelle sat in the middle of the floor, nervously shredding a scrap of chiffon that was all that was left of her spring/summer collection. She had not yet cried, nor even said very much; Will could see that she was in shock. This was the end of Cissé – he knew that, she knew that, but they could not bring themselves to admit it. For now, they could only process what had happened and try to piece together any ideas that might help the police. It was some consolation that the police had taken the matter very seriously indeed. But no amount of official interest would put clothes on the catwalk. Maybe they could recover in time for next year – but by that time they would have been overtaken, forgotten, or, if remembered at all, only as the people who lost everything in an unsolved crime. The success of the last few months, all the hard work of the last year and a half, had disappeared like a mirage.

Finally, after she’d reduced her little piece of pink chiffon to threads, Isabelle awoke from her miserable reverie and said the words that had to be said.

‘Who would do this?’

‘I don’t know, Princess,’ said Will, who could think of any number of people who might have done it, all of which were appalling and unthinkable in different ways.

‘Was it Rivelli?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He’s a crook. Dan tried to warn me.’

‘Rivelli is many things, including a crook, but he wouldn’t do a thing like this. What does he stand to gain? He ruins us, he loses any hope he has of making money.’

‘Maybe he’s so desperate to hold on to the money he owes us that he . . .’

‘What? Think about it, Isabelle. Rivelli’s in a hole, and everyone knows it. He owes millions to the taxman.’

‘All the more reason to hold us to ransom.’

‘Don’t be daft. The police would be down on him like a ton of bricks. He can’t afford any kind of unwelcome attention.’

‘Then who?’

‘Maya Rodean.’

‘Oh come on! Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Think about it. She hates you. She’s eaten up with jealousy. You had that big row with her . . .’

‘She started it!’

‘And she made a complete tit of herself in public. She won’t forgive that.’

‘But you don’t really think she broke in here in the dead of night and took all our stuff?’