They stepped out of the lobby into the not-so-fresh air.

‘Oh shit . . .’ She suddenly started shaking, and tears poured down her face. She fumbled in her clutch bag and found a tissue. Inside the theatre, they were still cheering Mercy Williams, who was making a lengthy victory speech. The world was watching a Cissé gown.

The officer put his jacket round Isabelle’s shoulders. It wasn’t how she’d planned her outfit, but she was glad of the warmth.

‘We’re taking you to the station. We’ll get a coffee there.’

‘I must see him.’

‘Not much to see at the moment. They’re taking good care of him at the hospital. But we need to ask you a few questions.’

The private nursing home was very private indeed. To the casual observer, it was indistinguishable from the dozens of other modern villas that dotted the hills around Antibes, complete with gated entry, security cameras and a lot of thick, thorny hedges. Christine’s police escort treated their arrival more like a raid than a visit to a sick friend. She noticed with a mixture of alarm and relief that two of the four officers who accompanied her were armed. Obviously a gun was considered more appropriate than a bunch of grapes.

The Commandant announced himself at the entryphone, and flashed a badge at the camera eye. There was a long pause before the gates squeaked open. Christine was ushered through, the Commissaire at her side, an armed officer behind them. One remained at the gate, the other, she assumed, nipped round the back.

There was nothing inside to suggest that this was a medical establishment. There was a lobby, and off the lobby, an open door from beyond which came the sound of low voices. The armed officer ran noiselessly up the stairs.

A man and a woman came into the hallway. The Commandant addressed them in French. They looked blank and shifty and did not respond.

‘My name is Christine Fairbrother. I’m looking for a friend of mine. Is she here?’

The man and the woman looked at each other.

‘Her name is Victoria Crabtree.’

A voice from above shouted ‘Elle est içi!’, and suddenly boots were thundering across the floor from the front and rear of the house. The man and the woman huddled together, their faces pale. He muttered ‘Oh, fuck,’ confirming Christine’s suspicion that they were English.

The Commandant reeled off the French form of the caution, and very politely ushered them back into the room whence they had come.

‘Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Mr Francis?’

‘No . . . I mean, here in LA? No. Absolutely not.’

‘But elsewhere?’

‘I suppose at home . . . I mean, in this business you make enemies.’

‘But nobody that had a grudge against him, that you can think of.’

‘No. Will’s the nicest person in the world. Everyone loves him.’

‘Miss Cissé, were you aware that your friend is gay?’