‘My God no. I’m an administrator these days. The only thing I repair is the relationship between my department and the board.’

‘We can see ourselves out.’ John takes my arm. The three of us start toward the exit, same way we came in.

‘Why don’t you come to the conservation studios now?’ Giles says as we walk. ‘I don’t think I’m ready to face that painting without moral support. And you could have a look at the other things we’re working on.’

John and I exchange a glance. I shrug. What else could happen?

‘If you’re sure it won’t be a bother, what with every­thing.’ John’s eyes have lit up at the renewed hope of talking shop.

Giles shakes his head. ‘I might even get your advice on what to do. We don’t usually deal with that level of … I remember you telling me about the repair you did on the painting that got caught in a clock mechanism.’

‘That was nothing. My favourite was the one the cat tried to climb.’ John puts up his hands and mimes claws raking through the air.

‘God help me.’ Giles shakes his head.

We follow Giles into the utilitarian heart of the Museum, pacing along hallways and up a flight of stairs oddly devoid of life. The reason becomes obvious the moment we enter the painting conservation lab; everyone seems to be here, clustered in a far corner. The room itself is vast and high-ceilinged, scattered with easels and work benches, lined with shelves and heavy with the reek of paint and solvents. As we cross the room John rubs his hands together, his head swivelling from side to side. Giles leads us forward and the cluster of people parts as they become aware of his presence. John gets a couple of nods of recognition and I get a few curious looks which I return with what I hope seems like a modicum of equanimity.

The damaged painting is propped on an easel, the tear all the more shocking now the canvas is upright, and the torn fragment flops forward. Standing in front of it and blocking the rest of my view is a woman with spiky bleached-blonde hair, accented with a streak of blue. She’s tiny but perfectly proportioned, like a pixie drawn by Ida Rentoul Outhwaite in one of her 1920s children’s books. When she spots John her eyes narrow for a moment and the pixie thing slips, then she breaks into a wide smile.

‘Porter. What are you doing here?’ Her tone is light but I notice she shifts almost imperceptibly to block John’s view of the painting.

Tilting my body sideways a bit, I try to see more of the canvas. I glimpse an iceberg near the top right corner. Definitely Arctic.