She turned her phone on to call Mike, to ask him for advice about lawyers and money and healthcare insurance. She didn’t have a clue about these things. What had Will said? She had the business sense of a small furry animal. How right he was.

No sooner did she have a signal than the phone started beeping and pinging and flashing. ‘You have four hundred and fifty-two voice messages’ it told her. ‘You have seven hundred and forty-eight text messages.’ Then it went dark, flashed again a few times, and came up with something that looked like a late Piet Mondrian. She tossed it impatiently on a table in the hall, went out the back of the house and picked up a cab.

The police were waiting when she got back to Cedars-Sinai.

He’s dead.

‘Miss Cissé? Could you come with me please?’ The officer took her firmly by the arm, and led her to a small office near reception.

‘We need to ask you a few questions.’

They think I did it.

‘What?’ She sounded guilty to herself. ‘What’s happened to Will?’

‘Nothing’s happened to Will. He’s still doing . . . fine.’

‘You’re lying to me. Something’s happened.’

‘We’ve made an arrest, Miss Cissé.’

‘Oh my God. Oh thank God. Who? Who did this?’

‘His name is Joel Warner.’

‘That’s impossible. Joel lives in London. Joel’s got nothing to do with this.’

‘We need you to confirm his identity.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because he’s not making a lot of sense right now, honey.’ The officer wiggled a finger around his temple. ‘He’s been taking too many funny pills.’

‘But I hardly know him.’

‘You’d recognise him?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘We’re going to the station. It won’t take long. Don’t worry – he won’t know you’re there, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘No . . . It’s fine . . . Of course I’ll come. But why . . . I mean it can’t be . . .’

‘By the way, Miss,’ said the officer, when they were driving up to the station, ‘does the name Rivoli mean anything to you?’

‘What? Rivoli?’

‘Something like that. Rivoli. Ravioli. He keeps saying it, over and over again, but he won’t say what it means. I just wondered if . . .’

‘Ravioli?’

‘I guess he just likes Italian food,’ said the driver.

Isabelle saw Mercy Williams’s face on a newsstand – a special edition of the LA Times with a wraparound cover. Head and shoulders. Silver straps. Golden statuette.

‘Rivelli,’ she said, almost to herself.

‘That’s it, honey. Rivelli. Who he?’

She could not get hold of Isabelle, she could not get hold of Andy or Ben, and in a panic she called John.