‘She thought Aidan was the best thing since sliced bread, but I didn’t take to his work at all. I liked him enormously as a person—I’d offered him a job by that point—but there was something about his paintings that left me cold. They were too . . . abrasive, somehow. Looking at them closely made me want to squirm.’ Saul shrugged. ‘So, no doubt that contributed to my decision, but it didn’t make me feel any better about it—worse, if anything. A courier arrived the next day and took the picture away with him.’

‘What about the money?’ Charlie asked.

‘Oh, I had that almost immediately. Within a couple of hours of our first phone call it had appeared in my bank account. Eight thousand pounds.’

‘Not to be sniffed at,’ Charlie agreed. There was no picture she wouldn’t sell for that amount, apart from ones she knew she could get more for, obviously. The Mona Lisa, or Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. Those were the only two famous paintings that sprang to mind.

‘I honestly thought Aidan would be better off with his work in a real collector’s collection, not up on my wall at home,’ said Saul. ‘I never told him, though—I kept meaning to, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Which meant I could never invite him back for dinner, all the time he worked for me.’

‘I don’t suppose you remember the name of this collector, do you?’ Charlie asked, not holding out much hope.

‘I do, as a matter of fact. I’m from Dorset originally, and he had the same name as my village of origin, a place no one’s ever heard of unless they were born there. Or rather, he had half of its name. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Blandford Forum, have you?’

Charlie hadn’t. Still, she knew which half was the collector that had made Saul the offer he couldn’t refuse. A man with a wife called Sylvia, and a home on a street that didn’t exist.

‘His name was Blandford,’ said Saul. ‘I wouldn’t swear to his first name, but I have a feeling it might have been Maurice. Maurice Blandford.’

The Swan in Rawndesley was as hot and packed as the gallery had been. Charlie pushed her way to the bar and ordered a pint of lime cordial and soda, feeling the need to rehydrate. She could see Kerry Gatti sitting at a table with two women, reading a hardback book, but he hadn’t seen her yet. She was late, but he wasn’t looking out for her. Didn’t care if she turned up or not. She took her drink and elbowed her way over to him, spilling some of it on the way.

‘Kerry.’