‘Right. So perhaps this was just the poor woman’s way of asserting herself. She thought that I was some sort of rival, and she came to see me off.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Nothing. Funnily enough, Dad, we didn’t exactly get chatting.’

‘And then you ran to tell your mother. Well thanks a lot.’

‘Hold on a second. You’re trying to make me the bad guy here?’

‘I’m not trying to do anything. I just want you to understand that things aren’t always as clear cut as they seem.’

‘Right. So are you and Mum back together again or not?’

‘She doesn’t seem to think so.’

‘And you? What do you think?’

‘I don’t know, Isabelle.’

They reached Acton. The situation seemed hopeless. Isabelle thought about Will lying in hospital, about Joel in prison, about the mass and mess of work that awaited her, the failure of her dreams about Chelsea and the bills that had not been paid and the agents clamouring for new designs to sell into the stores on the back of the Oscars. She thought about her mother, how confused and how hurt she must be.

How lonely.

‘You know what, Dad,’ she said, ‘if you don’t mind, I think it would be a good idea if you dropped me off at Mum’s.’

Andy grunted. They drove on.

‘Probably just as well,’ he said, at length. ‘My flat’s a bit . . . well, a bit of a mess at the moment.’

Victoria made a statement to the French police before she flew home, to the effect that she had been Massimo Rivelli’s mistress, that she was carrying a child he believed to be his, and at the time of the accident she was waiting for her lover to join her at Le Mûrier where they would discuss their plans for the future and the baby. No, Rivelli had never threatened her. He seemed pleased about the baby, and had even hinted that, now he was divorced from his wife, they might be together on a more permanent basis.

Had she been to Le Mûrier before? Yes, many times, she loved it there and regarded it as a second home.

Had Rivelli ever told her anything about when he had it built? Not that she could recall.

Did she have any reason to believe that Massimo Rivelli was a violent man? No, he had always been tender and affectionate with her.

Did she know Joel Warner? Yes, they had been lovers in London. Was she aware that he was gay? Well, she’d had her suspicions.

They let her go, satisfied that she knew nothing. She had not mentioned the rumours that abounded about Rivelli from long before she knew him, the hints that Adele had dropped, the strange, half-boastful remarks that Rivelli made about how he would crush the competition.