The police were working too slowly for Will’s liking, and so, without telling Isabelle, he turned Sherlock Holmes, with Joel as his Watson. He went straight to the people he most suspected.

He left Maya Rodean’s office with a bright red handprint on his face, and the feeling that his left eye was starting to swell up, and a reasonable certainty that, whatever else Maya Rodean may have done, she had not been responsible for the theft of the collection.

He called Victoria Crabtree, and listened to her irate ramblings about Rivelli, London Fashion Week, how much she could do for them even after what had happened, and what about lunch, right now? She was a drunk, thought Will, but he found it very hard to believe that she was a thief.

Rivelli was next on the list – but how could he confront him? He talked it over with Joel.

‘I’ve had enough of Rivelli’s bullshit,’ he said, as they sprawled on the couch half-watching TV. ‘If he’s behind this, I want to know. What does he want? A ransom?’

‘Come on, babe,’ said Joel, stroking Will’s thigh. ‘It can’t be Rivelli.’

‘Then who is it? I’ve ruled out all the other suspects. Christ, some detective I turned out to be. Someone walks into the studio and steals our entire collection and I don’t have the first fucking clue who it is.’

‘Let the police do their job.’ He put his arm round Will’s shoulders, leaned his body weight against him. ‘They’ll get their man.’

‘You don’t understand. This isn’t about catching the thief. This is about the fact that we’re not going to show at London Fashion Week.’

‘So? There’s always the next one.’

‘Yeah, right. And how are we supposed to do that? With all our stuff gone, with no money coming through from our fucking manufacturer, with the whole industry laughing at us. Someone wanted to put us out of business and they knew exactly how to do it. Just walk in to the studio, scoop up the stuff off the rails, into a bin bag, and away you go.’

‘What did the police find?’

‘Nothing. No sign that the lock had been tampered with or the chain cut. They reckon someone had a key.’

‘Who has keys?’

‘Only me and Isabelle.’

‘Did she do it, then? She’s mad enough.’

‘She’s not fucking mad.’ Will pulled away.

‘But it was all insured, right?’

‘Wrong. The insurance policy was hopelessly fucking out of date.’ Will sat forward with his head in his hands. ‘It’s my fault. I bought what we could afford at the time, when we started up last year, and I never got round to changing it. The insurance money won’t even begin to cover what we’ve lost.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. Shit.’

Joel massaged Will’s neck. ‘Come on . . . Relax . . . Everything’s going to be fine.’