Henry looked closely at the object. “‘And we came forth to look again at the stars,’” he said wistfully. “Dante’s Inferno. They’re the same words as the inscription on the back of the miniature. I looked at it carefully after it came back from Interpol.”

Alex’s brows knitted, but Henry’s thoughts had turned to the motorbike, and he shook his head doubtfully as he rubbed his thumb over the key. “You know, Alex, the Ducati was away being repaired for weeks, even though it wasn’t much damaged. The police went over it thoroughly, so I can’t imagine there’s anything still in it. We went through the saddlebags, which only leaves the storage box on top of the tank. Anything else would have been returned to us by now.”

Unless someone got to it in between, his son thought. But he said: “You’re right. Still, shall we check it, just to be sure?”

ALEX LOOSENED THE DUST COVER, AND THE RACING BIKE SHONE PRIMROSE beneath.

“His tetchy beauty, he called it. It’s in showroom condition.” Alex leaned against the hood of his father’s car with his arms folded, looking at the seemingly benign superbike. “Half again the cost of my Audi. He bought it with money from Mum, before she died. No one could talk him out if it.”

“It is beautiful.” Grace looked with admiration. “I think my brother would sink to his knees and pay homage to it.”

“It suited Will.” Simon ran a hand along the seat, and against the bodywork. “He was never late to a shoot. And he told me it was easier to ride than his first Ducati. Of course, you can’t be carrying any beer weight to ride one—real tail-in-the-breeze stuff. Only for a fit man, and bloody uncomfortable over any distance. Where’s the key?”

Lucy hesitated for some reason, reluctant to pass it to Simon, then freed it from the tile and put it in his hand. In a moment he had swung into the saddle, twisted the accelerator, turned the ignition. It roared, started the first time, and then stalled immediately in the hands of the novice. Everyone laughed nervously at the sudden noise.

Alex took back the key with a grin and unlocked the tank box: empty, as Henry had anticipated. Then he, too, ran his hand along the sides of the machine. There was no unusual feature, no compartment, nothing besides the fuel tank, and he knew that Will would never have risked its smooth function by putting anything in there. He shook his head and asked Henry: “Was there anything in the saddlebag? Or the rucksack?”

“Nothing unusual, as I recall. Of course, I wasn’t looking for anything particular. We could go through the odd bits and pieces again. What did you hope to find?”