Brighton and Hove Auctions’ saleroom was packed with a multifarious melange of antiques, collectables and miscellaneous stuff for their forthcoming general sale, and Billie had brought Henry along to help her search for possible stock items for the booth. She loved an auction house. They all had a similar smell – a combination of fried onions, musty furniture, damp carpets and stale cigarette smoke. She loved the thrill of sorting through shelves, boxes and tables rootling for hidden treasures that would make her heart beat just a little bit faster. When she was young, she had spent many happy Saturday mornings with her dad rummaging round junk shops and their local auction yard. His passion, ignited by his own father who had been a stationmaster, had been anything associated with steam trains: postcards, badges, lamps – even the crockery and cutlery that would have been used in the buffet carriages. There had been precious little money to spend on hobbies, and through necessity her dad had been an expert haggler and a disciplined bidder, never exceeding the limits he set himself. As she wandered up and down with Henry, noting the lot numbers of items of possible interest, Billie watched the dealers vying with one another in their habitual rituals that didn’t appear to have changed much since the auctions of her childhood. Their superficial bonhomie as they prowled the saleroom floor camouflaged the cutthroat competitiveness that burned beneath. Some loudly denounced as worthless items that they would later bid for with ruthless determination.

‘Look at that crack! If it’s damaged, it’s done for!’

‘Nobody wants Whitefriars anymore!’

‘Brown furniture! I wouldn’t touch it with a barge-pole!’

Others passed by items they were keen to purchase with barely a glance, feigning indifference so as not to draw attention to a potential gem. Another favourite trick was to hide promising-looking items included in a job lot behind or beneath the more commonplace, in the hope that they would go unnoticed by less canny customers.

‘Ooh! Hello sailor!’

Henry clutched Billie’s arm and pointed in the direction of a Pelham puppet dressed as a sailor, propped up against a hideous 1970s table lamp.

Billie inspected the toy carefully.

‘He’s still in his original box, and his condition’s not bad considering his age. The strings are a bit of a muddle, but nothing that can’t be fixed. What do you think?’

Henry smiled. ‘I think his eyebrows are in a very strange position but other than that he’s charming. If a little weird. And perfect for the booth, so long as he doesn’t come with that appalling lamp.’