Nathan shared the car from the station and dropped her off at her hotel. He’d given her a card with his mobile number. Scribbled on the back were the details for his hotel. The Ritz. Clearly expenses weren’t an issue at MI6. Lucky him. Her hotel wasn’t as grand but it was still pretty cool. Her room had funky black and white furniture and a large flat-screen TV. Normally, she’d raid the minibar for chocolate and crisps, watch rubbish soaps for hours and soak in a hot bath, but she couldn’t have fun today. She had too much to do.

First, she texted Mattie to say she was OK. It was tempting to text her PFB – Potential Future Boyfriend – too; it hadn’t been hard to get Jamie’s number after he’d left his mobile lying about in art class. But what would she say to him?

Hiya. I’m in Paris, dodging MI6 and trying to find my dad, who’s a suspected murderer/traitor. How r u?

What would she ever say to him?

Stay away. I’m trouble.

She didn’t have time for boys – even the best-looking one in the entire universe. She double-checked her dad’s mobile. Nothing, still voicemail. She fired up his iPad and did a geolocation trace on the phone. The SIM card had been removed or destroyed so she couldn’t pinpoint where he was. However, she could see the locations he’d made calls from over the last few days. He’d used his mobile a lot in his hotel and at a café, where he’d rung both their home phone and Mattie’s mobile on Saturday afternoon. It was probably worth a visit to see if the waiters remembered him. She didn’t recognize the other numbers – one was a mobile he’d called five times throughout Saturday. He’d made a call to it from AKSC that morning and been on the line for three minutes.

So he had paid a visit to the company in his search for Sam.

His last call was to the mystery mobile again, at 11.34 p.m. on Saturday. It was made from a location near his hotel. Could he have been heading back there when something happened? He went missing about the same time as Lara was found strangled in her hotel room, according to the time stamp on the photo of the crime scene. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

She pulled out Becky’s iPhone, masked her number and rang the mobile. It clicked straight on to voicemail, like Dad’s.

“Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message. Hugs and kisses, Lara.”

Jessica quickly hung up. That was spooky, hearing the voice of a dead person, speaking from beyond the grave. It was another piece of evidence that pointed to her dad’s innocence, which MI6 had ignored or hadn’t bothered to examine. If he’d killed Lara, why would he ring her even after her death? Margaret and Nathan would probably argue that he was giving himself an alibi. But what if he’d been trying to warn Lara before someone got to him too?

She shivered. He’d managed to get away from whoever it was long enough to reach a phone and make a Code Red call. That was slightly reassuring. He was still alive two days after his disappearance. If only she had the number he’d used, she could trace it. But it had flashed up on her phone as PRIVATE NUMBER and she didn’t have the technology to try and decipher where he was calling from.

She tossed her hair over her shoulders. She had to stay positive and focus on what she did have – evidence that Lara and her dad had been in regular contact and met their fates at about the same time on Saturday night. She also had important leads to follow up – the café where her dad made calls from and most importantly, AKSC.

She flicked through the documents she’d printed off her dad’s computer. Her eyes rested on Sam Bishop’s photo. She had to think like her dad and figure out what steps he’d taken to find him. Paying AKSC a visit must be her top priority. She really needed that casting call. She’d have to harass Felicity until she came up with the goods.

First she’d retrace her dad’s steps, starting with his stay in Paris: the Hôtel Relais Saint-Jacques. It was a risk. If the undercover agent tailed her and reported back to Nathan, she’d be packed off to London by the end of the day. But this could be the only chance to do some serious snooping before she started modelling. She had to give it a shot. She stuffed Sam’s picture into her bag, picked up her leather jacket and slipped out. Nobody gave her a second glance as she strode across the lobby and hailed a taxi outside. So far, so good. No one appeared to be shadowing her.

Just to be extra careful, she paid the driver to go via some sightseeing routes in case she was shadowed. She leant out of the window to take a picture of the Arc de Triomphe, like any other tourist. If anyone did happen to be following, they wouldn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. She peered at a giant white advertising billboard as the taxi overtook a lorry. TEENOSITY was printed in large black letters, with AKSC and the date 25th Janvier below.

Interesting. Allegra Knight’s new product launch was taking place this Saturday. The billboard didn’t feature any models or actresses or give any clues about what it was actually advertising. Felicity had said AKSC’s new product was hush-hush. She wasn’t exaggerating.

Eventually, the taxi pulled up outside Hôtel Relais Saint-Jacques, a white building on rue de l’Abbé de l’Épée, near the heart of the Latin Quarter. Flower boxes were dotted along the window sills and the doors were flung open invitingly. She paid the driver and looked up and down the street. She couldn’t see anyone watching her. She pushed her shoulders back, raised her chin and walked inside. Confidence was the key to success, she’d learnt from previous jobs. If she faltered and looked like she didn’t belong in the hotel, she’d be pounced on by security and thrown out within seconds.

The young brunette woman with bright scarlet lips behind the desk was her best bet. The name badge said Anouk Girard. She looked like she’d be sympathetic to a teenager in trouble, whereas the man on her right would probably eat her for breakfast.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Girard,” she said, smiling.

She explained rapidly in French that she was looking for her father, Jack Cole, who’d gone missing. She showed the woman her passport and noticed her flinch.

“I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle Cole,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“I need to see Dad’s room. He checked in on Saturday morning.”

Mademoiselle Girard paused. The receptionist on her right picked up the phone. She shot a look at another man who was locked in conversation with an elderly guest nearby. His name badge stated he was the general manager. She reddened as she stared back at her computer screen.

“Please,” Jessica said. “I’m begging you. This means a lot to me.”

Mademoiselle Girard nodded. “I understand.”

She waited until the manager had shaken the guest’s hand and wandered away. “Suivez-moi.”

Mademoiselle Girard led her through the foyer, past the luxurious bar and lounges and up the stairs to the first floor. She stopped as they passed through a second set of doors.

“This is it,” she said. “Monsieur Cole’s room. It’s as he left it. The police ordered us not to move anything.”

She swiped the door open and stepped back as Jessica walked inside. Room 158 was decorated with ornate, patterned scarlet wallpaper, which matched the spread on the king-sized bed.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Mademoiselle Girard said, “but I can’t be away from the desk for too long.” She closed the door behind her.

Jessica felt a lump rise in her throat as she spotted her dad’s silver Omega watch on the desk. It’d been a gift from her mum on his birthday. It was one of his most treasured possessions. He always wore it. She didn’t dare pick it up in case the police dusted it for fingerprints. She didn’t want to be traced back to this room. She felt a stabbing pain in her chest as she remembered the engraving on the back.

Love you for ever, Lily.

She didn’t have much time before Mademoiselle Girard returned. She had to find something that MI6 hadn’t thought to look for. Her dad’s laptop and mobile were gone but his passport and wallet were on the desk, along with his pills. She slipped the bottle into her bag. He’d need his meds urgently when she found him. No one would miss them. She turned around, noticing a photo in a small silver frame on the bedside table. She’d given it to him as a birthday present and he always took it with him on business trips. It was taken a year ago while they were holidaying in Cornwall. She was grinning, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her dad was laughing too. They both looked so happy. She wished she could remember what they’d found so funny. Somehow, it felt important now.

Mademoiselle Girard tapped on the door and stepped inside. She paused as she looked at the picture.

“It’s a lovely photo.”

“Thank you. I was just remembering when it was taken. Can I stay a few minutes longer? Please?”

Mademoiselle Girard’s eyes flickered around the room. “I have to get back before I’m missed. Close the door behind you when you’re finished.”

Jessica nodded. She waited for the door to shut and sat on the bed. It’d been fruitless. There was nothing here, except memories of her dad. Somehow, she felt closer to him, surrounded by all his things. Just days ago he’d touched the razor in the bathroom and polished the shoes in the wardrobe. He’d worn his watch.

Where was he now?

She jumped up. She was wasting time. The café was next on her hit list. She took one last look around the room and stepped into the corridor. A maid wheeling a trolley laden with towels and soaps glanced up, startled. Jessica explained in French that she was leaving and strode away.

“Jessica Cole?”

She turned back and stared at the name badge pinned to the maid’s blue uniform. She’d never met Marie Dumont before.

“Oui. Do you know me?”

“You’re the blonde from the photograph in there.” The maid nodded at the room. “Your father told me you’re a model. He’s so proud.”

“Thank you.” She’d used his name in the present tense, not like Margaret. She squeezed her fingers into the palms of her hands. She hadn’t cried yet and wasn’t about to in front of a stranger.

“He was a kind man and tipped generously for information,” Mademoiselle Dumont said.

“What kind of information?”

“About Monsieur Bishop. He was particularly interested in him.”

Jessica caught her breath. She’d been expecting her to say she’d told her dad about a good local restaurant or something trivial like that.

“Sam Bishop? You talked to my dad about him?”

“Oui, mademoiselle. I told Monsieur Cole every­thing I know.”

Jessica couldn’t believe her stroke of luck. “What did you tell him?”

Mademoiselle Dumont remained mute until she fished out twenty euros from her purse. The maid grabbed the note and shoved it into her pocket as two elderly guests brushed past.

“This way.” She pushed the trolley along the corridors until they reached Room 126. She swiped her card and pushed open the door.

“The room’s been cleaned since Monsieur Bishop left, of course,” she said, “but no guest has been in here since. Management’s planning a refit of some of the rooms on this floor, including this one.”

Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Her dad had deliberately checked into the same hotel as Sam Bishop so it would make it easier to speak to employees without alerting suspicion. He always said cleaning staff were a valuable source of information, as they had a good idea of the guests’ habits. Sometimes they even peeked into their belongings.

She walked around the room, looking inside drawers and wardrobes. Mademoiselle Dumont was right: the room had been thoroughly cleaned and smelt of lemon air freshener. Sam didn’t appear to have left anything behind.

“So what did you tell my dad?”

“As I said, your father was a generous man.” Mademoiselle Dumont smiled patiently and waited, her eyes resting on Jessica’s handbag.

She pulled her purse out again and handed over fifty euros. Mademoiselle Dumont grinned as she pocketed the money.

“Monsieur Bishop left the room in a state as usual the morning he disappeared – clothes scattered everywhere, wet towels on the floor, his shaving kit in the sink. The man lived like a cochon, what you English call a pig, non? He’d been with us for six months and I don’t think he ever picked up a sock. Il était impossible.”

“That’s it?” Jessica slumped on to the bed. She might as well have thrown Mattie’s fifty euros out of the window. She’d hoped to find out something more interesting about Sam other than his poor personal habits.

“That’s why it was such a surprise to see Monsieur Bishop back in the room later that day,” she continued. “I’d never met him before. You see, he was always gone by eight a.m. and returned after I’d finished my shift.”

“When did you see him?”

“About three p.m. on October thirtieth.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. How could she possibly be so precise?

“I’m not making it up!” Mademoiselle Dumont folded her arms crossly. “It was the day before my son’s birthday and I had to pick up his cake after I finished my shift. That’s how I remember it.”

“OK, I believe you. So what happened?”

“I was doing my afternoon rounds. Just as I got to his door, Mr Bishop came out with his bags. He gave me such a surprise.”

“Did you notice anything strange about him?”

“Not really. He looked shocked to see me too and excused himself. He got into the lift. I went into his room and found he’d packed everything up. That struck me as odd. He was our only long-term guest and housekeeping hadn’t told me he was checking out. After that, I never saw him again.”

“Did my dad ask you anything else?” Jessica said, peeling off a few more notes.

“He wanted to know if I ever saw any syringes or drugs lying around the room. I said absolutely not. I’d remember something as bad as that.”

This was an interesting snippet of information. AKSC had accused him of failing a drugs test. He’d either been careful not to leave traces of his addiction or the allegation wasn’t true. Could the French police have been covering something up, as Sam’s mum had claimed in her letter?

“I must get on with my rounds now,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “I’m running late.”

“Of course.”

Jessica was standing up to leave when something beneath the wardrobe caught her eye. She knelt down and fished out a tiny scrap of paper. There were more pieces pushed further back but she couldn’t reach them.

“It’s rubbish the vacuum missed,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “Here, let me throw it away.”

“I don’t think it is rubbish.”

Jessica looked closer. The paper had been intricately pleated and folded. She carefully tweaked it and a figure took shape.

“It’s a swan!” she exclaimed.

“Monsieur Bishop always made things like that,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “He used to leave them scattered across the floor, along with everything else. Like I said, the man was a cochon. Some of the girls got fed up with picking up the bits every day, so they probably just brushed them under there.”

“I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind.”

“As you wish.” She led her out of the room and closed the door.

“One more thing.” Jessica fished into her bag and pulled out the copy of Sam Bishop’s photograph. “Is this the man you saw that day?”

She stared at the picture and shook her head.

“No. I already told your father, Monsieur Bishop was much older than this. He was a large man with dark hair. I also told that model all about him too. What was she called now? Laura? No, Lara. She said she was a cousin of Sam’s and was trying to find him while she was here for Couture Week. Très, très beautiful but a terrible tipper.”

Jessica stared after Mademoiselle Dumont as she wheeled the trolley down the corridor. Ohmigod. Lara Hopkins had been here too. Was that why she’d been strangled and Jessica’s dad was missing? They’d both discovered someone else had emptied Sam’s room. It certainly weakened the French police’s theory that Sam had gone on the run. If he had, he’d left with the clothes he was standing in and nothing else. But it didn’t explain who was in his room that day, removing all his belongings. What did the man with fair hair have to do with Sam and why did he have all his stuff?

She ran back along the corridor and down the stairs. The foyer didn’t have any CCTV cameras but the mystery man wouldn’t have left through the front entrance anyway. He’d probably found another way to slip out, unnoticed, maybe through the kitchens. That was where she’d go if she wanted a quick, discreet getaway. As she walked past the front desk, she noticed Mademoiselle Girard finishing a phone call. She was alone. Jessica had to make one final stab at getting info.

“Thanks for all your help today,” Jessica said breathlessly. “I don’t suppose you could do one more thing for me, could you?”

“That depends,” Mademoiselle Girard said. “What is it?”

“Can you call up some information on another guest for me?”

Mademoiselle Girard frowned and stared at her computer screen. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’d get into a lot of trouble if my manager found out.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone. I need to find out about a man called Sam Bishop. My dad was trying to find him. Can you see when he last used his key card? It won’t take a minute. Please.”

Mademoiselle Girard hesitated and shot a furtive look over her shoulder. “You mustn’t tell a soul what I’m doing.”

Her long, scarlet nails tapped on the keyboard.

“I’ve already told the gendarmes this information,” she muttered. “He left his room at seven thirty a.m. on October thirtieth. He re-entered the room at two forty p.m. and departed again at three p.m. That was it.”

“Did he check out?”

Mademoiselle Girard shook her head. “The police arrived to question him the next day, but he hadn’t returned. His account was closed later that week.”

“Who closed it?”

“AKSC,” she replied. “The company had already paid upfront for the room and simply terminated the account. Now you must leave. My manager’s coming back from his break.” She nodded at the tall, dark-suited man walking towards them.

Quickly, Jessica pulled out the picture. “Is this Sam Bishop?”

“Oui, that’s him. Now please go before you get me into trouble.”

Jessica flashed a grateful smile and left. It had been worth taking the risk; it wasn’t cheap but it’d paid off. Outside, she hailed a taxi and jumped in. As it pulled away, she spotted Nathan and Margaret walking briskly into the hotel. She sank down into her seat. That was close. They hadn’t seen her.

She was one step ahead of them yet again.