‘It doesn’t matter. It all worked out.’ I smile at him and try not to think nasty thoughts about Sue. ‘And I don’t want to mess up your marriage. You know that.’ I give his hand a squeeze and then let go, and we resume our walk toward Robert Swindon’s office.

‘It’s already messed up. Sue has never accepted the fact that you’re my best friend and I’m not giving you up for anything.’

It may not seem like much, but it’s enough for now. Walking ahead of John, a huge smile spreads across my face and I force it back down before half-turning and saying as casually as I can, ‘We’ll figure it out.’

***

John escorts me to Swindon’s office and then goes to see if Sue is waiting for him somewhere, possibly causing a scene. He’s back inside ten minutes.

‘Most people have left and Sue is definitely not there.’

I nod, keeping my expression neutral. ‘Hey what about Monty,’ I say. ‘Who’d have thought he’d come through like that?’

‘Crap, yes, I’ll have to be nicer now.’

We hang around for over an hour, making ourselves comfortable in the plush office without feeling the need to say much. At one point, I go and retrieve my shoes, but I don’t bother putting them on. Finally Swindon arrives in the company of two plain-clothes policemen, both in near-identical suits that look as though they were chosen more for their wash and wear properties than for any sartorial reasons. The officers look like two of the panels from David Hockney’s 12 Portraits After Ingres in a Uniform Style, but I’m pleased to see neither of them is Detective Tautology.

‘These are Detectives Koenig and Jackson.’ Swindon waves vaguely toward the two men and then moves around his desk to occupy the chair I’m hurriedly vacating. John is already sprawled across two-thirds of a low sofa, and I perch on the free end.

‘We won’t keep you long. Just some contact details for now and if we could see you at Police Centre in Flinders Street tomorrow that should do,’ says one of the detectives. He’s slightly shorter and younger-looking than his associate.

John and I look at each other, then back at the detectives.

‘But what’s going on? What happened?’ I ask.

The two cops exchange a quick glance and the taller one – with deeper lines around his eyes – gives a barely noticeable shrug. In response, his colleague flips open a small notebook.

‘We’ll have to send the artworks for full assessment by an impartial party, but the young woman has admitted to painting them for sale as forgeries. She’s also implicated the second woman in the crime, claiming it was she who came up with the initial idea and handled all the details regarding sales.’