He made fast time to Port-Royal and walked the long way to the apartment. It was almost 1 a.m. when he let himself in and tiptoed to the kitchen. The light in the extractor fan had been left on, something Romy was always telling him not to do. He smiled as he switched it off, plunging the kitchen into semi-darkness. He turned slowly, aware of a new scent. Very slight, familiar … and male. It smelled like Old Spice, which he didn’t wear. He walked to the living room and the main window in front of the Juliet balcony, then looked down to the street out of habit.

He turned for the bedrooms and, in the half-light created by the city, saw a small pile on the coffee table—Romy’s wallet and keys. He stared at it. He knew he was tired and paranoid, but it still didn’t seem right. Romy’s stuff was always piled on the hall table near the front door and it was a running joke between them, because to de Payns that was just asking for an opportunistic thief to stick his head in the door and take your stuff. And where was her phone? Romy was organised and her iPhone always accompanied her wallet and keys.

He pushed off his sneakers and padded quietly down the dark hall. The city’s ambient light didn’t reach here and he moved by muscle memory. At Patrick and Oliver’s door, he paused and stuck his head around the jamb. Oliver had a Buzz Lightyear quilt and Patrick’s was Paris Saint-Germain.

He crept into the room. No boys.

They’d probably be with their mother, a common sleep pattern when he was away. He went to the next room, and as soon as he stuck his head inside, he knew it was empty. No sleep noises, no sleep warmth or smell. He flipped the lights and his mind went to white noise. The bed was empty—it hadn’t been slept in.

Snatching his phone from his pocket, he tried Romy’s number.

It went straight to voicemail. He left a greeting and followed it up with a text. He tried to stay calm but he was flipping out.

His breath rasped as he walked the room, checked the wardrobes and under the bed. He ran through the apartment, swearing to himself, panicking, his skin crawling and his brain squawking like an old field radio. He jumped from Dr Death to Islamabad, from weaponised gas gangrene to power drills and children as he grabbed the car keys, put on his shoes and burst out of the apartment door.