Then what, I wondered, was he doing poking around a crime scene?

‘He’s got a unit here, as a matter of fact,’ added an amused voice, ‘although we very rarely see him.’ A lady was strolling towards us, silver hair cut into a shiny bob, her long, purple skirt swinging as she walked. She carried a sad-looking teddy bear under one arm, and had small gold-rimmed specs perched on the end of her nose.

‘Vicky love, come and meet Juno.’ Tom Smithson held out a hand. ‘Juno, this is my wife, Vicky.’

‘I’m trying to thread this bloody needle,’ she told us, holding it up at arm’s length and squinting at it, ‘so that I can repair poor Bruin here.’

‘You need stronger glasses, old girl,’ he advised her.

‘No, I just need longer arms.’

I volunteered to thread the offending needle, whilst Vicky wandered off to make us all a cup of tea. Despite the autumn sunshine the air was fresh, and it was cold sitting in the warehouse, the door wide open to attract customers. A few possible buyers could be seen browsing amongst the old garden implements and stone ornaments displayed outside.

I sat drinking tea and chatting with Tom and Vicky for another half-hour. They were lovely people, and any idea that I might have cherished that Tom might have been involved in Nick’s murder seemed ridiculous.

‘Of course, if you want to talk to Bert, we can give you his number.’ Tom chuckled. ‘I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you, fancies himself as a bit of a ladies’ man.’

‘On what basis?’ I asked, incredulous.

‘Oh, you’d be surprised.’

Yes, I would. I thought I’d change the subject. ‘Have you seen anything of Verbena Clarke lately?’ I asked, as Tom scribbled Bert’s number on a scrap of paper.

I explained that she and I had parted company, without explaining why. He nodded sagely. ‘Not an easy character, our Verbena.’

‘Do you know her well?’ I asked.

‘No, no, only through the trade.’

I would have liked to ask more, but customers began drifting in through the door, and I felt I’d taken up enough of Tom’s time. But Vicky offered to show me around and I couldn’t resist the chance for a good snoop. Apart from the piles of brown furniture, collectibles and stuff that could be dismissed as junk, there were units containing more expensive items, most of them locked safely inside glass cabinets, many of these cabinets internally lit, with mirrored shelves to show off the contents to best effect. I peered in, mulling lustfully over silver jewellery, snuffboxes, vinaigrettes, and a long hatpin ending in a translucent lump of glowing amber. I read the price label, and sighing sadly, looked to the shelf above. And there stood a candlestick: square base, heavy, silver, William IV.

‘You OK, Juno?’ Vicky asked. ‘You’ve gone white.’