'Honestly, Violet,' Sarah said, shaking her head, 'that's the first place a burglar is going to look for valuables.'

'Then good luck to them.'

She'd wrapped the jewelled knife, still in its silk bundle, first in bubble wrap, then several layers of kitchen foil, and now, having carefully labelled it "chicken thighs", was busy chipping out enough space in the thickly frosted freezer compartment of her ancient fridge so that she could jam it in behind the defrosted bag of peas that she'd used as a compress on her ankle to bring down the swelling.

'As I know to my cost, an hour from now any burglar is going to need a blowtorch to get past the peas.'

'What if someone decides to steal the fridge?'

'Oh, please! You've only to listen to it to know that it's on its last legs,' she said, looking around at a kitchen that hadn't seen more than a change of wallpaper since the Formica revolution in the fifties. 'Like just about everything else in here.' She was going to miss it all so much… Then, because nothing, after all, had changed-she'd always known she'd have to leave, she grinned and said, 'I mean, who would be that desperate? But don't worry. I'll hack it out and take it to the bank tomorrow.'

'If I were you I'd cut out the middle man and take it straight to a dealer. Give that expert a call-he'll know someone reputable. He gave you his card, didn't he?'

She nodded.

'Well, there you are. Sorted. It'll make a decent deposit on a two-bedroom flat, and if you let a room you'll have the mortgage covered. You could finish that design course you were taking…'

'Get real, Sarah. Who in their right mind would give me a mortgage on the chance of me letting a room? Besides…' She shrugged, shook her head.