Easter came and went, and still no call. If Ben had been home, he hadn’t bothered to contact his father; presumably Christine had poisoned his mind against him. Isabelle was back in Los Angeles – out of harm’s way, at least. Best place for her. Reluctant as Andy was to face the music, he had to have one more crack at Christine, and if the children were out of the way, so much the better. He hoped she was still in the professional doldrums, as she had been during their recent reunion; she’d be more likely to welcome his return, particularly as he’d just pulled off another huge deal in Dubai for a large leisure complex on what was once a piece of unique natural habitat. He’d cover the place with green balconies and terraces, plant trees on the roof – that would make up for it. He was flush with money. Christine would be a fool to turn him down. So what if he’d taken a lover while they were living apart? She’d done the same. He could throw that in her face. They could hurl accusations, then decide to put the past behind them, make a new start, officially this time. Tell the kids properly. Daddy’s home.

If Will had died, the police would have constructed a neat case against Joel Warner who, at the time of his arrest, was covered in Will’s blood, off his head on crystal meth and in possession of enough drugs to supply most of the West Hollywood area for an entire weekend. He had burn marks and bruises on his body – it looked like a routine gay murder, an open and shut case. It wouldn’t take much to blow Joel’s ridiculous babblings about some guy called Ravioli right out of the pool.

But now Will had come round, and the picture had changed. Sadly for the LAPD’s conviction record, it wasn’t kinky sex games gone too far that Will started to remember. It was a fragmented narrative, coming out in small vivid unconnected pieces, about leaving a pool party, going on to a club and being picked up by a group of men who took them back to a chill-out at an apartment up in Laurel Canyon. And that’s where things had started to go badly wrong.

The baby was due in June – three months to go. Victoria couldn’t stay with her parents a moment longer; their silent disapproval was becoming toxic. As a last resort, she threw herself on Adele’s mercy. She had nowhere left to run.