In Room 2, a couple of girls were staring at the ‘Ron Maiden’ T-shirt and exchanging views in low voices. At Laure’s entrance, they scurried out. A tall, bulky man was standing in front of the recently displayed bridal veil. A short-sleeved shirt strained across his stomach and the belt holding up his jeans was doing sterling service. His head was bowed and he had laid the palm of his hand against the glass, something that visitors were asked not to do.

Laure made to step forward and checked herself. The man’s shoulders were heaving and she suspected it was the spurned bridegroom. Or someone in the same boat. In which case, he should be allowed licence. There was a temptation to tap him on the arm and to tell him: this, too, will pass.

Except, in her experience, that was not the case and to lie about it was almost worse than the offence.

She backed out of the room and left in peace a weeping, grieving man to gather himself together.

In Room 1, a gaggle of schoolchildren with rucksacks that they should have left in the cloakroom were pressed up against the cabinets. Children were a mixed blessing in the museum. Very often they were bored but some asked remarkably pertinent questions. There were squeals from this contingent and it was a fair bet that they were absorbing zero. An exasperated teacher with fair hair scraped back into a bun was trying to engage their attention. Giving up the attempt, she chivvied them to the door. Laure buttonholed her and asked her politely to deposit the rucksacks into the cloakroom.

Nic was in the office, absorbed by a document on his screen. He did not look up at her entrance. ‘There’s something that might interest you.’

She was anxious to transfer her notes to the screen. ‘Can it wait?’

‘Yup.’

The phone went. Nic answered and handed it over to Laure. ‘Jacques Bertrand.’

Laure made a face. Jacques Bertrand was their lawyer and he usually only made contact when there was a problem – as indeed there was. Jamie’s father was objecting to the milk tooth in the matchbox and the implication conveyed by its labelling that he was a negligent parent.

The conversation having wound to its close, Laure dropped her chin into her hands. Jamie’s father was furious and insulted. ‘So insulted,’ said Laure, ‘that he must be guilty.’

‘In what era did you become a cynic?’

She made a face at him.

It was late and Nic began to pack up. He took his time to switch off his computer and to stow his laptop. ‘I never knew you were interested in rock.’

It was a left-of-field question and she had to search for an answer. ‘I’m not.’ She added, ‘Particularly.’

‘Never a wild child?’ Nic was smiling in an infuriating manner. ‘The bare-breasted rock chick?’

Laure leant back in the chair. ‘What is all this?’