‘That’s not too bad,’ she said, relieved it wasn’t more. When there was silence from the other end, she knew she’d made a mistake. There was a definite tremor in her voice when she asked, ‘You mean seven thousand?’

‘Six thousand, nine-hundred and twenty. Perhaps you can understand now why we were concerned.’

Yes, Molly could. It was a colossal amount of money. ‘Yes. Yes. But it’s not a problem. I’ll be there in about an hour and we can get this sorted.’ She hung up, put the handset back on its stand and collapsed into the chair behind. Seven thousand pounds! She held a hand to her forehead. The headache had returned.

Picking up her mobile, she tried Jack’s number again but, once more, it went straight to answerphone. With a frustrated shake of her head, she stood and went upstairs to dress.

Casual clothes would have been easier, but she had fences to build. Looking smart and professional would give her more leverage. She pulled on black trousers, a white silk shirt and her black Armani three-quarter length coat and slipped her feet into black kitten heels. Her hair was still damp. Instead of spending time drying it, she brushed it out and pinned it up in a smarter French pleat.

With her make-up applied, she looked a little less like she was a vampire’s latest victim. Before she left, she checked her mobile. No message from Jack. There were messages from Remi and Freya that she read and quickly answered, also messages from Amelia and Petra, both asking if she was okay. She sent a yes, fine, don’t worry in reply to each.

She felt a quiver of guilt for having been suspicious of Amelia, for jumping to such a terribly wrong conclusion. What a fool she had been.

A final text to Jack asking him to ring her, and she left the house for South Kensington station. It was only a short distance on the Circle line to Paddington station and no more than five minutes’ walk to the hotel from there. Less than an hour after speaking to the manager, Molly was entering the Hyde Hotel.

She stepped up to the reception desk with her chin held high. ‘The manager is expecting me,’ she said in response to the receptionist’s pleasant may I help you. ‘Molly Chatwell.’

‘Please, take a seat, Ms Chatwell and I’ll tell her you’re here.’

In contrast to the evening before, the lobby was quiet with only a few people sitting in seats reading papers or drinking coffee. With the garish neon lights switched off, the décor was pleasant without being outstanding. There were empty seats near the window, Molly walked over, kitten heels click-clacking on the tiled floor.