‘It was here at half past one this afternoon,’ I insisted. ‘The girl—Ciara—said it was sold, someone had bought it yesterday. Whoever bought it must have come to collect it.’

‘I’ve always hated telling people they’re wrong, but I’m afraid you are.’ Jan Garner pulled a sheet of paper out of a file. ‘Look, here’s the list of everything we brought with us from the gallery: title and artist’s name.’

There was no Abberton on the list. No Mary Trelease.

‘But . . . it was here!’ I turned to look at Aidan, who had moved further away. I could see from the set of his back and shoulders that he was listening to every word while pretending to look at another gallery’s stall.

Jan Garner shook her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘When I took over from Ciara, she said we hadn’t sold anything so far. Which means the same pictures are up now as were up yesterday morning—nothing’s changed. Are you . . .?’

I didn’t hear the rest of what she said. Aidan had started to walk away, and I ran to catch him up. I was terrified of losing him again. ‘Wait!’ I shouted after him. ‘She’s lying! I swear on my life! Come back with me and I’ll prove it to you. We can ask the people on the stalls opposite. They must have seen Abberton.’

‘Shut up.’ He took my arm and dragged me out of the hall into the foyer. ‘I need you to tell me everything. Everything, Ruth—every detail.’

‘I’ve already told you . . .’

‘Tell me again. This Abberton picture—what is it, what’s it of? What did the other woman say to you—Ciara? What happened at Hansard’s gallery between you and the woman you think was Mary Trelease? What exactly was said?’

‘I don’t remember, not word for word—it was six months ago.’

‘I don’t care how long ago it was!’ Aidan bellowed. People nearby turned to watch. He lowered his voice. ‘I need to know. Start talking.’

So I did. I described the picture: the street scene background in greens, purples and browns, the outline of a human form filled with a kind of stuffing: stuck-on scraps of hard, gauze-like material, some painted, like curled-up jewels. Aidan let out little gasps through clenched teeth as he listened to my description, as if every word I uttered caused him terrible pain, but each time I stopped, worried about the effect I was having on him, he demanded I carry on.

I went over my conversation with Ciara. Aidan wanted to hear about every look that had passed across her face, every movement she made, the inflections in her voice. Then I told him as much as I could bear to about what had happened at Saul’s gallery. I didn’t mention the red paint.