‘None of them are,’ I said, feeling irrationally uncomfortable, ‘I’m selling them for a friend.’

She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘You buy and sell jewellery?’

‘They’re only made of glass,’ I told her, wishing they didn’t look quite so much like a haul from De Beers.

‘And you’re selling them?’ Fair asked.

‘I’m taking them to an antiques market,’ I stated emphatically, ‘for a friend.’

‘And what friend would that be?’

They were both staring at me. I hesitated. Why was I feeling so guilty when I hadn’t done anything wrong? ‘Mr Nickolai.’ I tried not to sound defensive and failed miserably. ‘You can ask him if you like. He has a shop in Shadow Lane.’

The dark-haired constable was smiling. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, glancing sideways at her colleague. ‘We know all about Mr Nickolai.’

I was too bloody furious to even think about going to bed. After I’d seen the police officers out, I knocked on Adam and Kate’s door. I needed to vent my feelings, and anyway, I reckoned they had a right to know why the police had been in their house. In their student days they’d been passionate animal rights campaigners and their involvement in protests had led to them being arrested more than once. In any case, Adam thought all rich people were bastards, so on hearing my story, he and Kate were ready to sympathise with me as an innocent victim of police oppression, if not actual brutality. Over a glass of organic red wine, we happily tore Verbena Clarke’s character to shreds.

I went upstairs feeling a lot better but I still couldn’t sleep. Several times in the night I had nearly got up to phone Mrs Clarke. I felt like telling her to stuff her job. But my quitting suddenly might not be a good move. The police might tell me the theft was the work of a random, opportunist thief, but I suspected they really thought it was an inside job, committed by someone who knew where Verbena kept her valuables. And she had pointed her finger straight at me.

CHAPTER NINE

Next morning, I took a shortcut through Ashburton Art and Antiques Bazaar.

I found Paul’s unit in one corner: all furniture items, beautifully restored – except for a single wooden chair, split down the middle, one half-restored, the other covered with chipped paint and old varnish; a clever ‘before and after’ advertisement.

‘Did you want Paul?’ A voice behind me made me turn. ‘Only, he’s not here at the moment.’

The voice belonged to Sophie Child.

‘Hello, Sophie. I’m only being nosy. How’s things?’