But all I can see are walls of nail varnish colours and massage seats with footbaths.

I smile at her and say ‘Pardon’, like I’m silly and made a mistake. Then I reach for my phone and call the number on the card.

It doesn’t even ring.

He doesn’t exist.

And if he doesn’t exist, if he’s not a PI, then Stan didn’t hire him.

I stand statue still, my mind whirring.

Whoever has been following me, whoever was waiting outside Thomas’s flat, is not only not a PI, but he had the foresight to make up some business cards in case he was called out. It’s that last part that has my stomach twisting. Everything inside me is screaming, ‘Leave’, and so I turn left and head for the metro and walk as fast as I can.

Forty minutes later I’m emerging from the metro stairs, my stomach is growling and I’m thinking about the sushi I’m going to get for dinner when I reach for my phone to check the time.

One missed call from Thomas.

My heart speeds up.

Finally.

I keep step with the pedestrian traffic, and as I head past a real estate agency with photographs of well furnished, overpriced apartments in the window, I dial his number. It rings as I move past a tabac.

Briinngg. Brinngg.

‘Harper?’ he says, as I get to the road.

‘Hey,’ I say, pushing a finger against my free ear to block out the sound of traffic. ‘Did you find something?’

‘I did,’ he says. ‘Can we meet?’

Fuck. I don’t want to meet up. Please don’t let him think last night meant something.

‘I can’t right now, I’m on my way to a work thing,’ I say, in a tone that says: I wish I could. ‘Can you just tell me the basics?’ The lights change and I cross the road.

‘Well Genovexa is a company based in the Caymans.’

‘Okay,’ I say, as I get to the other side.

‘Chances are it’s a shell company,’ he continues.

I stop and step to the side of the pavement, leaning up against the cool brick of a boutique as pedestrians move past me. This is exactly the sort of opaque situation I was hoping he’d come back with. Because I’ve read about shell companies before. They exist in name only and they have no employees. They’re not illegal in and of themselves, but given Je sais ce que tu fais, Agnès, this could mean I’m onto something.

‘Who owns it?’ I ask.

Please say Agnès Bisset… Please say Agnès Bisset…

‘Well, I had to pull a favour to find this out,’ he says, taking his sweet time. He wants me to know I owe him now. ‘But it’s owned by a Liechtenstein foundation called Requiem.’

Shit.