‘No, it’s gone,’ she said, frustrated, but she also knew that there was nothing she could do about it. At her age, if something slipped her mind, it tended to stay slipped.

‘Sorry, ladies, but I have to get on,’ Fred said, turning to go. ‘I can’t stand here gassing all day.’

‘We aren’t done though,’ Suzie said.

‘You aren’t?’

‘It could be important.’

‘I’ll get in trouble if I don’t complete my round on time.’

‘Then how about we come with you?’ Judith asked.

‘What’s that?’

‘We won’t get in the way, but we do have a few more questions to ask.’

‘You want to accompany me on my round?’ Fred said, amused. ‘Well, if you put it like that, I can’t think of anything nicer than having an attractive lady on each arm as I deliver the post. Come on, then.’

Judith and Suzie spent the next hour accompanying Fred as he delivered the post to the neighbouring streets. It was a somewhat frustrating process because they only got to speak to Fred in between houses, and he kept stopping for a chat on the doorstep with his regulars. At one point, he disappeared inside for a few minutes, and when he came out he apologised and explained that the old woman lived on her own and the ballcock on her cistern had stopped working, but it was a quick fix, so it hadn’t taken him too long.

But between the chatting, plumbing and the actual delivery of letters and parcels from his bright red trolley, Judith and Suzie were able to piece together some of Fred and Elliot’s background.

Fred had left school at sixteen and had joined the auction house, first as their porter, and then, a few years later, working front desk, checking in the auction items. As he was only a few years younger than Elliot, they’d go for a beer together after work every now and again. It was in these sessions at the pub that Elliot revealed to Fred how much he felt trapped having to work for his dad. What made it all the worse was how Elliot was falling in love with the art they were selling.

‘He started painting,’ Fred told them. ‘Apparently, there’d been a granddad who’d been a good artist. It’s how the family had ended up owning an auction house. But Elliot threw himself into it. You know, reading books, educating himself so he could get better as an artist. And he was good. Even I could see that. I mean, Elliot’s paintings were mostly abstract stuff. Very mid-twentieth century. You put two blocks of colour next to each other and call it art.’