I went to the Savoy Hotel with my mother. It was big and expensive, bigger than our hotel, and in the centre of London.
‘Mum needs this job,’ I thought. ‘And a private island in Scotland is a nice place to live. Perhaps I can forget what’s happened if I go there.’
‘Room twenty-two,’ said the woman at the hotel desk.
Go on up. Mrs Ross will see you now.’
Greta Ross was waiting for us. She was about thirty years old and very beautiful. She wore an expensive red dress and her hair was very long and dark.
