‘Roy, you know what Jack’s like, he’s a rottweiler. If he gets the bit between his teeth, he’s on it. He’s like all of us – it’s why our marriages fall apart – we get caught up in the chase and forget everything else. We put locking up the bad guys ahead of looking after our loved ones.’

For a moment, Roy didn’t respond. Glenn had a point. Roy’s own first marriage, to Sandy, had gone south because of his dedication to his work. And so had Glenn’s marriage to his wife, Ari. Being a good homicide detective could easily consume your life.

Which was why Roy had been so set on making this a proper holiday, quality time with his family – and the chateau, with its remoteness and privacy and no other guests, had seemed the ideal place for this. Perhaps in the morning, with the sun shining, it would turn out to be the paradise that he and Cleo had so much hoped for. Certainly, from the messages he had read from the celebrities and other guests who had visited over the years, it seemed the place had much to offer – even if it hadn’t been immediately apparent.

But something nagged at him. A speck of worry that was growing larger with every passing moment. Gnawing at him. The same worry that he had when he sensed something wrong on a case he was trying to solve. When things didn’t quite add up.

Like now.

The chateau not being what it had seemed from its online pictures. The mystery of Jack’s absence. The vanished car.

And he was still puzzling over the photograph, on the drawing-room wall, of the stocky man with the wild woman on his arm. Where did he know him from?

And why did he have the feeling he recognized Madame?

Ending the call, he checked the time. It was now 10.45 p.m. He retraced his steps slowly, again checking his phone every few minutes. Still two bars of the signal, 15 per cent battery. Then one bar. And 14 per cent battery.

As he entered the gates, and traipsed back up the drive towards the chateau, the final bar disappeared. No signal now. And just a meagre 13 per cent left on the battery. Above him, the sky was clearing, the clouds thinning out and the moon giving him enough light to walk without needing the torch. It looked like tomorrow really would be a fine day.

Suddenly he froze.

A faint, distant, piercing scream cut through the silence of the night.

A fox taking a rabbit?

That was a sound he heard frequently, in the early hours, back at their country cottage in Sussex. The terrible, pitiful, wailing sound of a dying rabbit that went on and on for several seconds. But this was different.

This had sounded human.