Mr Clarke glanced at his watch. ‘How long ago?’

‘Two or three hours. They asked where you might be. I explained that you were a salesman and said you’d either be at your office, or on the road.’

Mr Clarke glanced anxiously at his car outside, then at the children. ‘We need to leave Paris now.’

He grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him towards the street. ‘What’s going on?’ the boy asked anxiously. ‘Why are the police looking for you?’

‘I don’t think they are,’ Mr Clarke said cryptically. ‘I’ll explain everything in the car.’

Rosie protested. ‘But we’re here now. I don’t have a change of clothes, or a toothbrush or …’

Clarke thought for a second. It was a long journey and comforts such as a change of clothes and a few personal items would make it far more tolerable.

‘I suppose,’ he said, looking at Rosie. Then he thanked Mujard for the information and began bounding up the narrow staircase to the fourth floor, taking the steps two at a time. ‘We’ve got to be out of here in five minutes,’ he continued. ‘Grab some essentials: clothes, toiletries, small personal items. I don’t want the car stuffed with toys and junk.’

The trio were breathless by the time they reached the door of apartment sixteen. Mujard had unlocked for the police officers, so the door was intact, but the apartment had been ransacked. Drawers were emptied over the floor, a tall lamp had been knocked down and one of the sofas had been tipped on its back with its bottom sliced open to see if anything was hidden inside.

Paul looked shaken as Rosie bent down and began gathering pieces of a broken Wedgwood plate that had belonged to her great-grandmother.

‘Forget that,’ Mr Clarke barked, grabbing his daughter’s arm and hoisting her up. ‘They’re not police … I’ve told you I’ll explain later. Right now we’ve got to pack up and leave.’

Mr Clarke gave Rosie a nudge towards her bedroom, then he walked into the kitchen and began opening cupboards, searching for food to take on the journey. Paul started towards his room, but he knew he’d need to pee before setting off so he cut into the bathroom and bolted the door.

Paul still missed his mother and the bathroom evoked her memory. He could remember splashing around in the bath with Rosie when they were little and his fascination with his mother’s paraphernalia of perfumes, make-up and a giant glass jar stuffed with balls of cotton wool. Her half of the bathroom shelf was now clinically empty and he tried putting this out of mind as he unbuttoned his grey shorts and tried to pee.

‘Thinking about it, you’d both better change clothes,’ Mr Clarke shouted, from the living room. ‘Your uniforms are very English. It’s best if you blend in.’