‘Ah, that’s what this is all about. He’s called Ricky, he’s a music promoter, yes we had a little fling about a year ago, no I’m not going to do it again.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I just want to know . . . where you are.’

‘I’m touched. Look, I’ll try to come straight home. Be patient.’ He caressed Joel’s backside. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

Joel pushed his hand aside and stormed out of the room.

That’s just what I need, thought Will. A suspicious boyfriend.

It didn’t help that Joel’s suspicions were justified. Will had every intention of doing whatever it took to gain access to Mercy Williams. He didn’t go after Joel, just shouted ‘I love you’ before leaving the flat.

The words seemed to echo as Joel picked up his phone and called Rivelli.

Dave visited her on the fourth day after she regained consciousness.

‘Is there anything you need, Miss Crabtree?’

‘Where’s Massimo? I need to see him.’

‘He’s on his way.’

‘Does he know where I am?’

‘Of course he does.’

I haven’t told him.

‘Then . . .’ She felt sick again, and retched.

‘Is it the baby?’ asked Dave. ‘My Sue was sick a lot in the first few months.’

Victoria smiled weakly, and dabbed at her mouth with a tissue. ‘I think I need to sleep now,’ she said.

Isabelle was awoken by banging at the door.

Christ, not his fancy woman again . . .

She put on a dressing gown. It was just getting light outside.

‘What do you want?’

‘It’s me.’

She looked at the spyhole – and saw Will, dishevelled, drunk perhaps, his hair a mess, his shirt wrongly buttoned. She opened the door.

‘The old git downstairs was asleep so I thought I’d give you a lovely surprise.’

‘Lovely,’ said Isabelle, slip-slopping into the kitchen and filling the kettle. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘It’s never too early for good news, Princess.’

Will was bouncing around on the balls of his feet, like a boxer.

‘Sit down, please. You’re making me feel sick.’

‘Sorry about that, darling,’ said Will, in a voice thick with overdone concern. ‘Wouldn’t want to do that for the world. Well!’ He threw himself on to the couch, kicked off his shoes and buried his feet in the cushions. ‘Guess where I was tonight?’

‘Don’t play games, Will. It’s very early in the morning.’

‘I went out with Ricky, he of the lovely red hair and the pneumatic bum, remember? And Ricky just happens to be working with a little-known American artist, you may not have heard of her, she’s barely known, more a cult than anything else . . .’

‘Mercy Williams.’

‘Gosh! You have heard of her.’

‘You’ve . . . you’ve seen her?’

‘Seen her, honey?’ He imitated Mercy’s West Indian-inflected accent. ‘You’re looking at her New Best Friend.’

‘So is she . . . ?’