It was nearly three a.m. and Will was still not home. Isabelle was annoyed. She had to dress, and how could she possibly dress without Will to advise her? And she had to eat something – she couldn’t go through the whole thing on an empty stomach. She left a message on his mobile.

Look, Will, I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing, but please could you tear yourself away and get your arse back here so we can get ready? You’re cutting it a bit bloody fine.

And then she’d started worrying, knowing perfectly well that this was not in Will’s nature. He should have been the one pacing the marble floors, wondering where in hell she’d got to and what she thought she was doing, partying on the night before the Oscars, not telling him where she was and who she was with, nagging her like her mother would nag her.

She went back to her room. Mike was still out for the count, snoring, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. There was no point waking him. He’d still be pissed. He’d tell her not to worry, then grunt and fart and pull the sheets over his head. He didn’t care. When she went back to London with Will, she’d chuck him, and tell Will he was right all along.

Where the hell was he?

‘I’m sorry, madame,’ said the desk sergeant, ‘but if you do not know the date of the accident, it is very difficult for us to trace.’

‘It was this month.’

‘There are many accidents in this region. Do you know the exact location?’

‘No, I don’t . . . But the woman’s name. Victoria Crabtree. You must have some record. It was in all the papers.’

‘Madame,’ said the femme-agent, ‘we will do our best to search our files for you. At present, we are very busy. If you could come back again in two days.’

‘Now listen,’ said Christine, who had been rather good at crushing police officers in the criminal courts, ‘I am not someone to be dismissed in this way. I have come here to report an attempted murder.’

‘Murder? Oh, ça . . .’

‘And if you are not qualified to help me, I will speak to your senior officer.’

The woman glared at her, but she was outclassed. Sometimes, thought Christine, it was good to be English.

‘Now, madame,’ said the Capitaine, a handsome man in his fifties, who could not take his eyes off Christine’s legs, ‘what appears to be the problem?’

‘As I explained to your colleague out there, I have reason to believe that someone is attempting to kill my friend. Her name is Victoria Crabtree. She checked into a hospital in Nice but now she has disappeared. She is pregnant and vulnerable.’ He stared at her. ‘Do you understand?’