‘My goodness. Is this a Kandinsky? How exciting.’ I passed my finger lightly across the canvas. I was taken aback by the seedy desperation that oozed from such a well-heeled prick. I continued to scrutinise the frames, working my way along the walls as if I’d all the time in the world.

‘Rebecca used to work here. I haven’t seen her for ages. How do you know her?’ The tension was delicious. I continued to toy with my shades, baiting with my tardiness.

‘We’ve been seeing each other. Dating, I think you’d say.’ I taunted him as I feigned interest in his wares. ‘Wow. I do love modern art. Perhaps you’ve a piece of paper so I can make a few notes.’

A rather off-guard Mr Pennington (I couldn’t quite bring myself to think of him as James, far too intimate) retreated. I watched him scurry around, bizarrely flustered by the simple request. He returned and handed me a glossy catalogue.

‘Tell me. Where’s she living now? We were very good friends once. Well, perhaps a little more than that,’ he smiled, embarrassed. A crimson hue tinged his sunken cheeks.

‘We’re living in North London; Muswell Hill actually.’ I sat down at the front table, spread my legs and scribbled on the brochure.

‘She used to work here; years ago. Would you like a coffee, Mr, em?’

‘Beck. Arthur Beck. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Rebecca never mentioned names, just pointed me in the direction of the gallery.’ How joyous it was to watch her spurned boss fish for information. He insisted I call him James.

Mr Pennington offered me a seat and as we drank coffee, I dangled carrots of information about Rebecca and myself. At the same time I gleaned some useful facts.

‘She worked here for a couple of years. She left shortly after my brother committed suicide.’ I leant back as the storyteller slumped uneasily in his chair.

‘Yes, I heard. That must have been dreadful. Do you have a price list, if I might be so crass?’ I teased. How joyous fate can be. I asked the next question, totally unplanned, to fill a moment’s silence and what a pleasant surprise.

‘Did she work here on her own after that? She doesn’t like to talk about it, as you can imagine,’ I said.

‘No, she worked closely with another guy. Oliver Moreton.’ James stood up at this point, taking our mugs back to the kitchenette. He then disappeared to print off price details. The Hulk. He’d worked here, with Rebecca. When Mr Pennington returned, he carried on.

‘Unfortunately Mr Moreton was an unsavoury character.’ James grimaced and handed me the printout. ‘If there’s anything you’d like more information on, please give me a call.’ He handed over his card. James Penrose Pennington MA. His receding hairline, rounded shoulders and trembling hands filled me with pleasure.