Dartmoor Antiques was set in an old warehouse on the outskirts of Exeter, a concern very like Ashburton Art and Antiques Bazaar but larger and more impressive. Tom Smithson was the proprietor. I’d tracked him down on the Internet. Most of the ground floor was filled with his stock.

‘Dark-brown furniture,’ he waved an arm at a collection of wardrobes, desks, assorted bookcases, tables, chairs and dressers, ‘not fashionable at the moment, of course,’ he added wryly as we sat down at a mahogany table. He turned to me and smiled. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

I felt a bit awkward. ‘I expect I’m only going to ask you what the police have already asked,’ I told him. ‘But time is going by and the case doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. I wondered if you’d ever come across Nick’s Russian customers.’

‘You’re right, they did ask but I’m afraid I couldn’t help them. I didn’t have that many dealings with Nick myself and I hadn’t seen him since the auction.’ He frowned at me. ‘You’re convinced, are you, that these Russians are responsible?’

I sighed. ‘Pretty much.’ I recounted my meetings with them, first at Nick’s flat, and then on the moor.

Tom Smithson listened, his genial features displaying more and more alarm.

‘They certainly sound like a pair of wrong ’uns. But I’ve never come across them, and I don’t know what Nick’s connection to them might have been.’

‘There was another dealer with you and Nick, that day at the auction,’ I began tentatively, getting to the real reason for my visit. ‘Tall, thin, with … um … large teeth … I think his name is Albert. I saw him coming out of Nick’s place one day, by the back door.’

‘You mean Bert Evans.’ He thought for a moment and his shoulders shook with laughter. ‘Poor old Bert! He has been known to dabble in what you might call murky waters, but if you’re fancying him for a murder suspect, Juno, I’d think again. He’s got a brilliant alibi.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘He was having dinner with us the night that Nick was murdered. There was a whole group of us, we went on until the small hours. In fact,’ he added, grinning, ‘I remember that you came into our conversation that night.’

‘Me?’

‘You made quite an impression on Bert. He was asking if anyone knew anything about you. He’s a sad soul, been widowed twice. He’s always on the lookout for the next Mrs Evans.’

My face must have been a picture. It made Tom laugh, anyway. ‘But seriously,’ he added, ‘I think you can forget him as a suspect. He’s got a very weak heart, he’s waiting for a bypass operation. He’d run a mile from any violence − has to avoid stress at any cost.’