‘A load of nonsense, if you ask me,’ she replied crisply. ‘Probably doesn’t even exist.’

‘Then how do you explain the hand with the apple?’

‘The rest was probably broken up by a tractor. These statues are everywhere.’ She paused in dusting her stock and thought for a moment. ‘Everyone thinks that Georgiades man is involved, but there’s no evidence. He’s a good customer of mine.’

Stelios’s antennae started to buzz. He couldn’t imagine what the man could possibly want from a gift shop full of cheap tat that probably came from China anyway.

‘I had this old map of the island from the Corsair days. Genuine, my husband said it was. From the seventeen hundreds, when this place was really big. They said it was once the richest island in the Cyclades, imagine that! It cost two hundred euros!’ she announced with the satisfaction of knowing she’d bought it for a hundred.

She paused reverently. This had probably been her biggest sale of the season, and Stelios could easily imagine why it might be useful to someone wanting to hide a statue. ‘He comes and goes a lot in that Mercedes of his, but that’s hardly evidence. Maybe he’s bored after Athens. He’s quite thick with the man who carves boats in the street round the corner. He’s a strange character. You might try him.’

Stelios glanced around. He ought to buy something in recognition of her time. It could, after all, be for his mother.

‘Buy this,’ she grinned, pointing to a miniature set of table and chairs, painted in bright Greek blue, the chairs with woven seats just like the originals found in a thousand Greek cafes. ‘They’re better quality than the rest of my stuff.’

They were, he had to admit, very charming. He could imagine many a tourist taking them home as a memento of a pleasant holiday. Far better than the usual ouzo in a bottle shaped like the Acropolis, bought on holiday and never touched again. Pity Stelios didn’t have a proper home at the moment to display them, but lived at the back of his gallery. He’d never been one to put down roots.

‘Certainly I will.’

With tender care she wrapped them first in tissue and then in gold-embossed hand-made wrapping paper, finishing with a gold bow, as if the simple table and chairs were some priceless purchase.

‘Thank you.’ Stelios bowed again. ‘I will put them on my mantelpiece to be forever reminded of my time in Kyri.’

He didn’t mention the fact that he’d only been here less than an hour. Next he headed for the cafe and downed two black coffees and three koulouri, the sesame-flavoured bagels that had been part of his childhood in Thessaloniki.