‘Not her, maybe – but one of her people, quite possibly. She’s surrounded by mad hangers-on, all those desperate wannabes who think they can ride on her coat tails. If she’s been bitching about you – and believe me, she will have been – then one of them might think it was a great way of getting Queen Maya’s approval by coming in here and taking the collection to lay at her feet. Wiping out the competition. The one person who can show Maya Rodean up for the charlatan that she really is. You.’

‘It’s completely implausible.’

‘Do you have a better idea?’

‘I don’t know. Have you pissed anyone off recently? Any mad bits of rough trade round at the flat who might have nicked the keys and decided to help themselves? They’re probably flogging the dresses at some ghastly car boot sale in Essex.’

‘I don’t entertain mad bits of rough trade, as you so charmingly put it.’

‘Well, you’ve been seeing someone . . .’

‘Yes, I have, and that’s all you need to know, thank you very much. Okay, try this for size. Victoria Crabtree.’

‘You’re just being silly now, Will.’

‘I don’t think so. She’s unhinged. She’s obsessed by you, always has been. She’s living with that crazy bloody Leanne Miller now, so God knows what ideas she’s put in her head. She’s in and out of here all the time, she knows where everything is. I reckon she’s nicked the stuff, and then a day before the show she’ll phone up and say she’s “found” it all and will pretend she’s saved the day.’

‘And why would she do that?’

‘Revenge.’

‘For what? I’ve done nothing to her.’

‘Not you. Your mother.’

‘Now you’ve really flipped.’

‘She blames your mother for screwing up her relationship with Rivelli . . . And who knows, maybe with good reason.’

‘And so naturally she comes and steals our stuff because that’s really, really going to hurt my mother, isn’t it? Quite honestly, Will, I think my mum is a much more likely culprit. She disapproves of my career and so in a moment of menopausal madness she snuck in here under cover of darkness and . . .’

‘All right! Take the piss. This isn’t helping us get the stuff back.’

Isabelle got to her feet. ‘You don’t need to tell me that.’ She stormed over to the door, ripped it open, turned and shouted ‘It’s my fucking collection that’s been stolen, you know. Not yours. My reputation that’s going to be destroyed. Not yours. My fucking career.’

She flounced out, slamming the door behind her, still shouting.

‘Not yours!’