They gave him water and coffee and made him walk around the room. Swabs were taken from the blood on his clothes and hands, and sent off to the lab for analysis.

When he finally sobered up enough to speak – and this took some hours – he seemed to believe that he was in a gym or health club environment; an immediate call went out to see if there had been any incidents reported in West Hollywood’s bodybuilding community. He could still not answer direct questions about his name or his actions – but the officers detected an accent that was not local.

‘Is he Scottish?’ asked one.

‘I don’t know,’ said another. ‘He sounds kind of like, I don’t know, maybe from New England.’

‘No,’ said a third, with some certainty – he was a film fan, and had seen a few Baz Luhrmann movies – ‘he’s Australian.’

Victoria was unconscious when they found her. An ambulance, under police escort, took her to hospital, where she was immediately put back on drips and monitors. The doctor who attended her said she had been heavily sedated, possibly with morphine. She would be fine, but he could not vouch for the baby. Its heartbeat was fine, but beyond that he would not commit himself.

Christine set up camp at Victoria’s bedside, waiting for her recovery, and while she was waiting, she phoned John Ferguson.

‘Beyond reasonable doubt?’ he said.

‘No. But give them time. The police here seem to know what they’re doing. They only have to establish a connection between the English couple at the so-called nursing home, and our friend Massimo Rivelli, and we’re in business. Wait till the newspapers get hold of this one. They’ll go mad.’

‘They certainly will,’ said John. ‘And what about you? Are you doing all right? Anything you need?’

You, thought Christine, but banished the thought.

‘No, I’m fine. I just wish we knew about the baby.’

‘Is there anything at all that I can do?’

‘Besides what you’re doing already? I don’t think so.’

‘I didn’t mean as a lawyer. I meant as a friend.’

‘Oh.’ That wasn’t quite what she’d been hoping for, but it would do. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll see you when I get back.’

‘Okay.’ He sounded crestfallen. ‘I . . . hope things work out.’

‘They will,’ said Christine, trying to sound bright. What, after all, was she expecting?

While the rest of Los Angeles was going to work or going to Oscars parties, Isabelle was going to hospital. Will was out of the ER and on the ward, where he remained on the critical list. He had not regained consciousness, and there was every possibility that he was in a coma. They would not be able to assess the extent of brain damage, if any, until they had stabilised his condition.