I put in more time for Ricky and Morris, who were kind enough never to say ‘I told you so’ about Nick. Only once in the following weeks did I find myself driving down Shadow Lane. I had to stop and pull over on to the pavement, to let a car travelling in the opposite direction go by, our wing mirrors almost touching as the driver squeezed his vehicle past in the narrow roadway. For a few moments I was forced to halt opposite Nick’s shop and my attention was snagged by a tall, skinny man emerging from the end of the alleyway that led to Nick’s front door. He looked furtive, his watery gaze shifting from right to left before he stepped out from the alley, as if checking the coast was clear. For a moment, our eyes met and he smiled. Not a friendly smile, but more a nervous rictus at realising he was being observed. I recognised him then. I remembered his loud laugh, his big yellow teeth like old piano keys, his gelatinous handshake. I’d spotted him again at the antiques fair. Albert, I think Paul had called him. Now it seemed he was one of Nick’s back-door customers. He was carrying something awkwardly, trying to conceal a package under his coat. More dodgy dealings, I thought contemptuously, and drove on.

A few days later I was in Ashburton on foot, shopping for Chloe Berkeley-Smythe. She’d forgotten she had a friend coming to lunch and asked me to fetch emergency rations from the delicatessen on North Street. I came out with a variety of local cheeses, thinly sliced beef, olives, home-made pâté, pastries, handmade chocolates and other mouth-watering spoils that I could never afford to buy for myself.

It was starting to rain, sudden large drops that made everyone hurry into doorways and the shelter of awnings. The van was parked several streets away, so I thought I’d take a shortcut down the alley that joined Sun Street and Shadow Lane, past Nick’s front door.

I threaded my way along the narrow space between the wheelie bins, taking care not to knock the bags of shopping, not really looking where I was going, shoulders hunched against the increasingly heavy rainfall. It was the tap-tap of high heels that made me look up. Someone else was using the alley as a shortcut, coming straight towards me from the other end.

Verbena Clarke stopped dead in her tracks; her face turned white, then scarlet. She stared, hesitating a moment, pushing back her cloud of fluffy blonde hair with a gloved hand.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

She didn’t give me the chance, turned on her heel and fled, back the way she had come. I hurried on after her, past Nick’s door.