She nods, adjusting her sitting position as he switches his laptop to full screen. A moment later, she studies each face for five seconds. First Brucie and then Jeff. Silly, she knows, but they used to use nicknames in the force when they were mentally storing images of faces, based on instant associations. Big chin? Bruce Forsyth. Prominent ears? Jeff Goldblum. It helps to make their faces stick.

Brucie and Jeff disappear and a series of images starts to flash in full screen before her eyes. She doesn’t have enough time to clock each one in detail, but she’s aware that they’re what they used to call ‘dirty’ shots, when the faces are partially obscured.

After thirty seconds, she feels tired. Despite the speed of the images, her brain is desperately trying to analyse each one, process it, match it against memories. The curse of the super recogniser. It’s like playing pairs on speed. Or Pelmanism, as her granny used to call it. Kate always used to win against her as a child, but it was put down to her younger brain rather than any special gift. She only discovered her ability to recognise faces a few years ago, although she should have seen the signs earlier. Whenever she watched TV, she’d recognise walk-on extras in the background that she’d seen in other films. She just thought everyone did.

She doesn’t know how long the test lasts – two minutes, maybe longer – but she’s relieved when it’s over.

‘That was hard,’ she says, blowing out her cheeks. It feels like she’s just sat an exam.

‘You have to relax,’ Ajay says, studying his phone. ‘Allow the images to wash over you, let your subconscious brain do the work.’

‘I don’t think I spotted anyone,’ she says.

‘You did.’ He turns his laptop for her to see. There’s a graph on the screen and a noticeable spike. ‘Image number 213.’

Jeff. ‘What about the other person?’

‘The spike was less pronounced.’ He scrolls through the rest of the graph and shows her more of a gentle hill than a mountain peak. ‘But it’s still an impressive response.’

She’s not convinced. Brucie got away.

Ajay pauses, shaking his head. ‘It’s still remarkable. Your powers of recognition are undoubtedly back, which is encouraging, given the damage that your brain suffered.’

She doesn’t need reminding. Six months ago, returning home after a particularly difficult day at work, she drove into a tree just outside the village. Not that she can remember any of it. They think she fell asleep at the wheel. She was lucky to survive, given her traumatic brain injuries. No airbags in a 1969 woodie. After an extensive investigation, the police concluded that it was a tragic accident.

‘Does that mean my ability to paint will return, too?’ She glances over at the canvas of Stretch on the easel.