‘Not really. As you said, it looks as if Monica has moved on. We’ll try her landlord. But you’ve been a great help all the same.’ And then he had to walk away because Willow was flashing him evil looks from the driver’s seat. Annie stood in the doorway watching until they’d turned the car and driven off.

He directed Willow to the gallery and left a message for Sandy at the same time. They drove through an empty hillside scarred with peat banks. In the gloom everything was dark and colourless. The gallery was so well camouflaged that Willow almost shot past, and when Perez pointed out the building she slammed on the brakes and had to back up to get into the car park. The door was locked, but there was a light inside and when they banged on the door a woman opened it to them.

‘The gallery’s not open in the evenings.’ She had a European accent that Perez couldn’t quite make out. French?

‘We’re police officers.’ Willow was already holding out her warrant card. The woman stood aside to let them in. Inside the space was quite different from how Perez had remembered it, and the unreliability of his recall troubled him for a moment. How could it be so altered from the picture he’d kept in his head? It seemed smaller and more drab. Perhaps it had seemed grander on the night of the opening exhibition because of Monica Leaze’s energy and the sense of occasion. Because Fran was there with him.

He saw the painting of the girl in the white dress on the far wall and went straight towards it, leaving Willow to engage with the woman. The murmur of conversation behind him didn’t distract him. The girl in the painting at least was as he remembered her. There was the knowing smile, and the curls. She was just as Polly Gilmour had described the child she’d seen on the beach. He turned back to join the women.

‘This is Catherine Breton,’ Willow said. She frowned as if she resented his lack of attention. ‘She’s a potter. She has a studio here and looks after the place.’

‘Do you know Monica Leaze?’ Perez felt foolish as soon as he’d put the question. It was the first thing Willow would have asked.

‘Of course. She’s a painter. She exhibits here.’ The woman was dark and heavily built, with muscular arms. There was clay under her fingernails. Perez sensed that she just wanted to get back to work.

‘Do you have any idea where she is now?’

She shrugged. ‘Monica has a complicated domestic life. I’m never sure exactly where she is.’

‘Tell us about that.’