‘December twenty-eighth, right?’

‘Yep. Doesn’t give us any time after Christmas. You?’

‘First thing, I’m taking the two pictures over to David to get the framing done, then I thought – no one from the police has called me about yesterday – I don’t know if I should go to the police station and make a report.’

‘You phoned them yesterday?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d wait for them to contact you; I’m sure they will. Try not to let what happened distract you – you really need to relax.’

‘Yep. I was hoping to, but I’m starting to really panic about the exhibition.’

‘How’s your head feeling, now?’

‘OK.’

She looked at him. ‘I just wonder whether you shouldn’t get an X-ray done.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because you clearly hit it very hard. You might have some internal damage.’

‘It wasn’t that hard.’

‘No? It looks like it was pretty damned hard to me.’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

He finished his breakfast and went up to his studio. He looked across at the construction site. None of the machinery was operating. There were two police cars and a white forensics van, and several people in hooded protective suits and overshoes on the far side of the cordon, where the accident had taken place. One was taking a stream of photographs.

Seated at his desk, he logged on to his computer.

And saw white, seemingly random numbers, again, on a black background. He tried to take a screenshot but they vanished before he hit the keys. As before, the login request then appeared.

He called his computer guru and got his voicemail. He left Matt a message asking him to call back, and to do something to stop the glitch causing these irritating numbers from appearing. Then, carefully placing the paintings of the dogs into protective carriers, he kissed Emily goodbye and set off to his framer in Lewes.

David Graham’s workshop was, undoubtedly, the most chaotic work environment Jason had ever seen. A huge open-plan loft space, in former industrial premises in the centre of Lewes, there were exposed beams and rafters, shelves crammed with rows of old books and battered old chairs blotched with paint. Each of the several work surfaces was littered with ancient computer terminals, bottles of chemicals, loose papers, strips of wood. In addition, there was a soiled cooker where the mix for his gesso boards was heated up, and propped against a wall was a gigantic roll of bubble wrap.

The framer himself, in grubby overalls with a creased, paint-spattered face and equally spattered grey hair could, if he stood perfectly still, have blended into his environment like a chameleon.

Jason never ceased to wonder at the ability of the man to produce exquisite framing of his work, exactly as they discussed, and always on time. Their relationship, over the past decade, had reached the point where he hardly needed to brief the man at all. He handed him the two carriers and David assured him they would be ready for collection the following morning. He reminded Jason that he was closing up shop at midday on Wednesday until early January, and flying up to the Scottish Highlands.