‘Thank God.’

‘Want to go back?’

‘No. Let’s get to the pub, call a taxi, then we can pick up our bags and go to my parents.’

‘Sure.’

A few minutes later they reached the first of the village street lights, right across the road from the village store.

But it was no longer a village store.

There was a whole new plate-glass shopfront. The name had changed. The sign above now read, in smart, modern lettering, COLD HILL GALLERY.

Lights were blazing inside, and it was rammed. A party was in progress. Smartly dressed people, holding champagne flutes, nodding, chatting, some smiling, mostly serious, intense.

Jason and Emily looked at each other in astonishment.

‘What the hell?’ he said. ‘When did that happen?’

‘The village store.’ Emily shook her head in disbelief. ‘The village store’s gone.’

‘But –’ he was trying to think clearly – ‘we had our newspapers delivered this morning.’

‘They must have moved.’

‘Must have. But where? How could they? I only drove past a few days ago.’

They crossed over. As they drew nearer, Jason could see paintings hung around the walls, some with a red dot on them.

His paintings.

Then the small, discreet sign on the door.

PRIVATE VIEWING. 6.30 p.m. – 9 p.m.

BY INVITATION ONLY

He looked again at Emily. The door opened and a couple emerged. Jason and Emily slipped through and entered the mêlée. There was a heady smell of dense perfume and cologne, mingled with a fainter tinge of paints and a quiet, subdued murmur of voices. People stood, admiring the paintings, some deep in discussion, pointing out details approvingly. A waitress with a tray laden with glasses filled to the brim moved through the room. As she headed in their direction, Jason reached out for two glasses, but she glided past, as if he and Emily were invisible and the tray in her hands was just an illusion.

Someone will recognize me in a minute, he thought.

An elegantly dressed woman, with a sweep of finely coiffured fair hair, clearly the gallery owner, or director, who reminded him of the owner of the Northcote Gallery, was addressing a small group of men and women.

‘We are so lucky to have secured these quite exceptional pieces from the estate – his last works and, in my view, his very best.’

She pointed at his painting of The Skiver. Then at the one – he was certain he had not yet even done – of the miserable old couple in the pub. Next to it was another painting he had planned but not yet started, of a mechanical digger operator on the construction site.

‘Jason Danes,’ she proclaimed, ‘was the natural successor to Lowry. Had he lived, I think he would have become one of our truly great artists. There’s no question that all twenty-two of his works here will rise in value over the coming years. I see these as a must for anyone interested in twenty-first-century British art. It is so tragic he was taken from us at such a relatively early stage in his career.’