It was very quiet in the room, at least when Maya stopped screaming. She’d gone through all the major stages of grief in the first half hour: denial (‘I can’t believe this is happening to me!), anger (‘How dare they do this to me!’), bargaining (‘Let me go and I’ll make it worth your while’), depression (‘Oh God I’m not dealing with this at all’) and finally acceptance (‘Go on, then, kill me and get it over with’), without once mentioning the fact that Isabelle had been kidnapped as well. Finally, she cried hysterically, had to wee in the bucket, turned to Isabelle and said ‘What are we going to do?’ It was the first time she’d used the first person plural pronoun, and Isabelle found herself warming to her. Was this some weird new variant on Stockholm Syndrome? Would she actually end up liking Maya Rodean? ‘We have to keep calm, Maya. Whatever this is about . . .’

‘It’s about me! Someone wants to stop me!’

Isabelle found herself cooling again. It felt much more natural. ‘Maya, you don’t really think this is something to do with fashion, do you?’

‘What else could it possibly be?’

Isabelle thought about trying to explain, but saved her breath. To Maya, there was nothing else in the world that mattered. Oh well, she thought, at least she can’t possibly suspect me of having arranged the whole thing, can she?

‘This isn’t by any chance your doing, is it?’ said Maya.

That was when Isabelle decided to wait it out in silence.

When Isabelle didn’t turn up to the gala reception at the National Art Centre, Dan texted her – the shoot was probably overrunning. He didn’t like to disturb her while she was working, and although he’d booked a table for dinner after the party, that could always be rescheduled. A shoot for Elle Japon was important, and if they couldn’t keep to their timetable, he’d just have to adjust his.

When the reception was winding down, and neither Isabelle nor Maya had turned up, to the consternation of the English language contingent, Dan tried to call Isabelle’s mobile. It was switched off. He called the photographer’s studio and learned that Maya and Isabelle had left on schedule at five p. m. That was three hours ago. Even in Tokyo traffic, it couldn’t take three hours to travel a couple of dozen city blocks.

He called the limousine company, who told him that the car and driver had been stood down on his orders earlier that afternoon, did Mr Parker not remember? Miss Cissé would be making her own travel arrangements from now on.

That was when Dan called the police.