‘I don’t think he did. I imagine she just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. It was Victoria he was after.’

‘Why?’

‘She was pregnant.’

‘With his child?’

‘Maybe that’s what she told him. But it could easily be . . . someone else’s.’

‘That’s ridiculous, Christine. I know he’s bad, but surely he’s not that bad.’

‘He owes you money, right? And he owes Revenue and Customs money. He owes his ex-wife money. I’ve been doing a bit of digging around, Will – all those dodgy companies that came up in the divorce case. Rivelli is up to his eyeballs in debt on all sides, and anyone who tries to get money off him now is putting themselves in danger. And then, on top of all of it, along comes Victoria Crabtree claiming she’s carrying his child. He sees child maintenance payments stretching out into the future.’

‘And so he tries to kill her? Come on.’

‘He’s cornered. He’s lashing out.’

‘But if that’s the case, then we’re all in danger. Including me, because I’m trying to recover the money.’

‘Don’t!’

‘Too late. I’ve already started legal proceedings. If I don’t, Cissé goes under. I have no choice.’

‘You must withdraw.’

‘Are you serious? I mean, he’s just as likely to go for you. He blames you for losing the divorce case.’

‘Indeed. And he blames Joel for bungling the burglary.’

‘It looks like he’s planning to wipe out everyone in my address book. Is there anyone else I should know about?’

My unborn grandchild.

‘You may joke about it, Will, but I’m serious. Take care. And for God’s sake, tell my bloody daughter to take care too.’

‘You know what I want,’ said Rivelli.

‘Another job like the last one?’

‘Not quite. I want him dead. Will Francis.’

Joel sat back in his chair, as if winded. ‘Oh.’ He felt sick. ‘I can’t . . .’

‘You don’t have to do anything,’ said Rivelli. ‘You can’t even steal a few lousy dresses; you don’t think I’m going to trust you with anything more complicated?’

‘No.’

‘I want him where I can see him. I want you to stick to him. Keep him happy. Deliver him to certain places at certain times.’

‘But . . .’

‘No buts, Joel, please. Do this for me, and maybe you have a nice future, plenty of money, plenty of friends, plenty of pussy. Maybe.’

‘And if I refuse?’ asked Joel.

Rivelli just smiled.

Isabelle sat in her room at the Soho Hotel, flicking through the TV channels, wondering who she should call.

Will.

Dan.

Ben.

Mum.

Dad.

EastEnders.

Police Camera Action.

Extreme Makeovers.

Dog Borstal.

Friends.

Buttons on the remote, buttons on her phone, all those messages left unanswered.

She spoke to nobody, watched nothing, ate an airport sandwich.

Welcome home . . .